
Class. [ oil_ 

Book ,33ft Jfe 
Copyright N° . 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE POETS 



AND 



POETRY OF BUFFALO 

EDITED BY 
JAMES N. JO-HNSTON 




BUFFALO, NEW YORK 
MCMIV 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
TWo Oootes Received 
SEP (9 1904 
WrtErrfry 

XXo. No. 

3 



CLASS 



T6 r*l 



Copyright, 1904, by 
JAMES N. JOHNSTON 




1 ~* 



this book 

is dedicated to the 

Buffalo Historical Society, 

AS A 

SLIGHT CONTRIBUTION TO ONE IMPORTANT PART 

OP THE LOCAL HISTORY 

WHICH IT LABORS TO PRESERVE. 



PREFACE 

An anthology of Buffalo verse has long been 
talked of and much of the plentiful material for 
such a collection has been hitherto pointed out. 
The late David Gray, in articles written for his 
journal, The Buffalo Courier, referred to some of 
the poets of his time. Mr. Frank H. Severance, 
while editor of The Buffalo Sunday Express, gave 
considerable attention to our local poets, and in 
a paper on "The Authors of Buffalo," contributed 
by him to the publications of The Buffalo Histori- 
cal Society, named a number of our writers of 
verse. Papers at different times have been read 
before our local literary societies on the poets of 
Buffalo. Mr. Charles Wells Moulton, in his Maga- 
zine of Poetry, especially in what he named The 
Buffalo Number, gave a selection of poems from 
Buffalo authors. All these helped to stimulate in 
many minds a desire to see more from the writings 
of our local poets brought together in one repre- 
sentative book. 

It has not been difficult for my friends to per- 
suade me to undertake the gratifying of that 
desire; for I have watched the flowering of this 
native verse with a very warm interest from the 
early years of my life in Buffalo, when I began 
acquaintance with men and women in the older 
circles of those to whom poetry is a delight. 

About half a century ago my mother, the late 



Jane Nichol Johnston, began a scrap-book hoard- 
ing of poems which pleased her, including such 
local verse, from newspaper print, as she and I 
thought worthy of preservation. These scrap 
books, some of them now falling in pieces, have 
made the nucleus and the principal source of the 
present collection. Other sources have been opened 
to me by Mr. Henry R. Howland, Miss Phoebe 
Vail Salisbury and Miss Marietta Salisbury, Mr. 
Charles D. Marshall, Mr. John McManus, Mr. 
George Alfred Stringer, and others. I have been 
diligent, too, in gleaning from the files of the city 
press, especially from such literary periodicals as, 
now and then, have had a brief existence here. 
Authors, or their living representatives, have given 
cordial assistance to my work, and publishers 
who own copyright in many of the poems chosen 
have been generous in permitting them to be used. 
Due acknowledgment of the latter courtesy is 
made in another place. 

In forming the collection my greatest difficul- 
ties have arisen from the abundance of the mate- 
rial at command. I have found it far beyond my 
expectation. It surprises one to find how many 
volumes of verse, public and private, by poets con- 
nected in some way with Buffalo, have been put 
into print. Certainly the number exceeds two 
score. As David Gray once remarked, our poets 
begin in the newspapers, then appear in the maga- 
zines, and end often by publishing a book. Con- 
sidering that, three or four generations ago, the 
ancestors of two-thirds of our present population 



did not speak our English tongue, and that we are 
a commercial and manufacturing community, en- 
gaged strenuously in material enterprises, we may 
feel some reasonable pride in the field of poetry 
from which these gleanings are made. 

I have aimed to make my selection representa- 
tive in a comprehensive way ; not limited to a few 
of our foremost poets, but extended to less ambi- 
tious verse, where it has a merit of its own, or 
where it is significant of the taste and culture of 
former times. The poems of the Honorable Jesse 
Walker, going back into the thirties, have a pecu- 
liar value aside from being the first book of printed 
Buffalo poetry coming under my notice. I have 
taken some poems because of their historical or 
personal associations, and a few — which include a 
small number of my own pieces — at the request of 
friends. This may be deemed excusable in a book 
not prepared for general public sale, nor for any 
pecuniary profit to the editor. Many of the 
writers represented in the book were or are my 
personal friends, and it has been a labor of love to 
bring their work together in a single volume. 

The proportion of space allotted to the writers 
severally is not to betaken always as the measure, 
in my judgment, of the value of their verse. His- 
torical and other considerations have entered into 
the apportionment of space. Nor must it be sup- 
posed that writers omitted are thought to be 
unworthy of a place in the book. A few whom I 
intended to reach, but did not, have written poems 
that are superior to some that are here. 

xi 



My thanks are due to the many who have 
assisted me in this work ; primarily to those who 
encouraged and aided its publication, — to Mrs. 
John C. Glenny, whose fine taste has added beauty 
to the book, and above all to my mother, Jane 
Nichol Johnston, whose aid in the selection and 
preservation of our local poetry made it possible 
for me to undertake the present collection. 

J. N. J. 



All rights in poems in this collection are reserved by the holders of the 
copyright. The publishers, authors, and others in the following list have 
given permission to use the poems named therein, for which the editor 
would make courteous acknowledgment : 

To ADVANCE PUBLISHING CO., CHICAGO, ILL. 
For " Her Face," by Bessie Chandler. 

To AINSLEE'S MAGAZINE, NEW YORK. 
For "A Garden in Greece," "Cameraderie," by Charlotte Becker. 

To HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 
For "Recompense," "An After Thought," "Dandelion," "Love in May," 
" At Sunset," by Annie R. Annan ; " Murillo's Immaculate Conception," 
by David Gray; " The Marguerite, " "A Last Word," by Augustus R. 
Grote. 

To R. G. BADGER & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 
For "Obscurities," "Keats," by Philip Becker Goetz. 

To CATHOLIC WORLD MAGAZINE CO. 
For " Night and Peace," by Blanche B. Wade. 

To THE CENTURY COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
For "Terra Incognita," by George Hibbard ; "Snow Born," by Henry R. 
Howland ; " Rydal Water," " Maidenhood," by Annie R. Annan ; "At 
First," by Amanda T. Jones; "The Tapestry Weaver," by Anson G. 
Chester; "The Last Council," by David Gray; "Dora's Eyes," by Irv- 
ing S. Underhill ; "The Highwayman," by Allen Oilman Bigelow ; 
"The Wood Nymph," by Helen Thayer Hutcheson ; "The City of 
Light," " The Comfort of the Trees," by Richard Watson Gilder. 

To WILLIAM C. CORNWELL, BUFFALO, N. Y. 
For "A Night of Winds, A Night of Clouds," by Annie R. Annan. 

To THE CRITIC COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
For "A Poet's Apotheosis," "Crossing the Meadow," "A Song Sparrow," 
by Walter Storrs Bigelow ; "Alfonso," by Effle Dunreith Gluck. 

To FIELD AND STREAM. 
For " A Child of the Woods," by Charlotte Becker. 

To HARPER'S BAZAR. 
For " The Awakening," by Emily Howland Leeming. 

To HARPER'S MAGAZINE. 
For "The Cost," by Charlotte Becker. 

To GOOD HOUSEKEEPING. 
For "Love Stands and Waits," by Emily Howland Leeming; "Song," 
" Prescience," by Rose Mills Powers. 

To THE INDEPENDENT, NEW YORK. 
For " Gethsemane," by Minnie Ferris Hauenstein. 

To AMANDA T. JONES. 
For "Shipwrecked," by Amanda T. Jones. 

To P. J. KENEDY. 
For "The Launch of the Griffin," "My Irish Wife," by Thomas D'Arcy 
McGee. 

xiii 



To LESLIE'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
For " The Soldier's Mother," by Amanda T. Jones; "What do Shepherds 
Think?" by Blanche E. Wade. 

To LIFE PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
For "A Long Drawn Sigh," "To Him, to Her," by Irving S. Underbill ; 
"The Last Lover," by James S. Metcalfe. 

To THE LITERARY WORLD. 
For " The Life Natural," by Jessie Storrs Ferris. 

To A. C. McCLURG & CO., CHICAGO, ILL. 
For "Father," from "A Prairie Idyl," by Amanda T. Jones. 

To CHARLES WELLS MOULTON, BUFFALO, N. Y. 
For poems from "Magazine of Poetry." 

To FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
For " A Street Song," by Charlotte Becker ; " The Summer Noon," by 
Blanche B. Wade. 

To NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE. 
For "Delight Rose," by Henry R. Howland. 

To FREDERICK PETERSON. 
For poems from " In the Shade of Ygdrasil." 

To PUCK. 
For "The Beautiful Trio," by Irving S. Underhill. 

To G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS. 
For extracts from "Risifl's Daughter," "Sunrise from the Mountains," 
"Through the Trees," "The Nightingale," "Premonitions," by Anna 
Katharine Green. 

To ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS. 
For selections from "The Wind in the Clearing " and from " For the King." 

To SATURDAY EVENING POST, PHILADELPHIA. 
For "Envoy," "Sympathy," by Charlotte Becker. 

To CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, NEW YORK. 
For "On A Head of Christ," by Bessie Chandler Parker; "Good Night," 
by Marrion Wilcox. 

To THE SMART SET. 
For "The Reckoning," " Arden," by Charlotte Backer. 

To MRS. JULIA M. THAYER. 
For "The Recluse," "The Unwelcome Guest," by Helen Thayer Hutcheson. 

To TOWN AND COUNTRY, NEW YORK. 
For " Pierrot," by Charlotte Becker. 

To FREDERICK A. STOKES & COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
For "A Picture of Millais," Published in "Vol. H. of "The Life and Letters 
of MilJais," by Edith Eaton Cutter. 

To THE YOUNG CHURCHMAN COMPANY, MILWAUKEE, WIS. 
Selections from the works of the Rt. Rev. Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 
Also the editor would express his obligations to all authors included in 
this collection, or their legal representatives, for copyright poems, or 
those not copyrighted, whether published in books, otherwise printed, 
or hitherto unpublished. 

xiv 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Adam, Thekla, 

Albertson, Rev. Charles Carroll, 
Almy, Frederic, 

Annan, Annie R. (Mrs. William H. Glenny), 
Annan, J. V. W., 
Arey, Mrs. H. E. G., 
Austin, Arthur W., . 
Austin, Mary Evelyn, 
Balfour, Grace, 
Barker, James W., 
Becker, Charlotte, 
Bigelow, Allen Gilman, 
Bigelow, Walter Storrs, 
Browne, Irving, 

Burroughs, Ellen. (See Jewett, Sophie.) 
Burtis, Mary E., 
Burwell, Dr. Bryant, 
Chandler, Bessie ( Mrs. LeRoy Parker ), 
Chester, Anson G. 
Christy, Edward, 
Conway, Katherine E., 
Coxe, Rt. Rev. A. Cleveland, . 
Cronin, Rev. Patrick, 
Cutter, Edith Eaton, 
Davenport, Esther C, 
Ditto, Mrs. John A. ( See McKenna 
Dixon, Master, 

Dowling, Jane F. ( Mrs. Robert B. Foote ), 
Emerson, Agnes D., . 
Fernald, Hannah G., 
Ferris, Ellen M., 
Ferris, Jessie Storrs, . 

Foote, Mrs. Robert B. ( See Dowling, Jane F 
Fulton, Linda de K., 
Gilder, Richard Watson, . 
Gildersleeve, Rachel Buchanan, ( Mrs. Gildersleeve 
street), 



Margaret.) 



434 

375 
270-273 
166-180 

112 
. 34-42 
212-217 
267-269 

241 
226-228 
422-428 
256-260 
360, 361 
246-255 

218, 219 
13 
341-344 
. 66-77 
. 15,16 
280-285 
203-211 
293-299 
406-408 
236-238 



1, 2 
435 
43, 44 
402 
242-245 
403-405 

220, 221 
429, 430 
Long- 

. 45-48 



INDEX OF AUTHOES 



Glenny, Aline, 431 

Glenny, Mrs. William H. (See Annan, Annie R.) . 

Gluck, Effie Dunreith ( Mrs. James Fraser Gluck ), . 235 

Goetz, Philip Becker, 438-440 

Gray, David, 152-165 

Gray, David, Jr 395-398 

Green, Anna Katharine (Mrs. Charles Rohlfs), . 196-202 

Grote, Augustus Radcliffe, .130 

Hadley, Clara A 127-129 

Hartzell, Rev. J. Hazard, 115-119 

Haueustein, Minnie Ferris, 277-279 

Hibbard, George, 318 

Hosmer, James Kendall, 109-111 

Hosmer, W. H. C, 239, 240 

Howard, Emily M., 393,394 

Howland, Henry R., 337-340 

Hubbell, Mark S., 355-359 

Hutcheson, Helen Thayer, 380-384 

Jewett, Sophie (Ellen Burroughs), . . . . 366-369 

Johnston, James N., 144-151 

Jones, Amanda T., 93-106 

Kellar, Elizabeth 107-108 

Kendall, Ada Davenport 326-328 

Keyes, WillardE., 377 

King, S. Cecilia Cotter (Mrs. Wm. A. King), . . 436, 437 

Kittinger, M. J 224,225 

Larkin, Frances Hubbard 391, 392 

Lamed, Anne Murray, . * 410, 411 

Leeming, Emily Howland, 415-417 

Letch worth, Josiah : 222, 223 

Letchworth, Sarah Evans, 414 

Longstreet, Mrs. Gildersleeve. ( See Gildersleeve, Rachel 

Buchanan.) 

Lord, Emily Bryant, 55 

Lord, Rev. John C, D. D., 49-54 

Loton, Jabez, 120-124 

MacColl, Mary J., 274-276 

MacManus, Theodore Francis, 370-374 

McGee, Thomas D'Arcy, ' 20-25 

xvi 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Mcintosh, William, 

McKenna, Margaret (Mrs. John A. Ditto), 

Mahany, Rowland B., 

Marshall, Charles D., 

Martin, Charlotte Rosalys, 

Metcalfe, James S., . 

Mills, J. Harrison, 

Mixer, Mary E., 

Montgomery, Carrie Judd, 

Nichols, Walter Clark, 

O'Connor, Joseph, 

Olmsted, Mrs. Elizabeth M. , 

Parke, Charles S., 

Parker, Mrs. LeRoy. ( See Chandler 

Peterson, Dr. Frederick, . 

Powers, Rose Mills, . 

Ripley, Mary A 

Roberts, Caroline Mischka, 

Robinson, Grant P., . 

Rogers, Robert Cameron, 

Rohlfs, Mrs. Charles. (See Green, 

Salisbury, Guy H., . 

Severance, Frank H., 

Shalloe, Agnes, 

Shea, John Charles, . 

Sprague, Carleton, 

Stillson, Jerome B., . 

Stuart, Matilda H., . 

Thompson, Mary Norton, 

Tracy, A., 

Underhill, Irving S., 

Van Fredenberg, Henry A. , 

Wade, Blanche Elizabeth, 

Wade, Elizabeth Flint, 

Walker, Honorable Jesse, 

Wentworth, David, . 

Wilcox, Marrion, 

Wright, William B., 

Young, Julia Ditto, . 



Bessie.) 



Anna 



Katharine.) 



286-292 

14 

345-348 

. 86-92 

376 

441 

. 78-83 

125-126 

319-325 

378-379 

229-234 

132-135 

307, 308 

309-317 
412, 413 
136-143 
432, 433 
113, 114 
445-462 

. 26-33 

300-306 
362-365 
261-266 
442,443 
. 84,85 
. 58-65 
131 
. 17-19 
399^01 
329-336 
388-390 
385-387 
3-12 
. 56, 57 
418-421 
181-195 
349-354 



MASTER DIXON 



MASTER DIXON* 



A NEW SONG 

Composed in Commemoration of the Completion of the Grand Erie Canal. 

Ye brethren dear, who now unite 
In this grand scene of pure delight, 
We now have reached the glorious height, 
The level of Lake Erie. 

The waters of the east and west, 
The Hudson, Mohawk, and the rest, 
In sweet communion now are blest ; 
They mingle with Lake Erie. 

This day we all rejoice to meet ; 
The glorious work is now complete, 
The mountain's levelled at our feet,— 
Is levelled with Lake Erie. 

Accomplished is the grand design, 
The work of Level, Square and Line ; 
! Masonry, the art was thine, 
To triumph o'er Lake Erie. 

Where is the nation that can show 
Such streams as through our mountains flow 
To the Atlantic, far below 
The level of Lake Erie? 

* This song was printed in the form given here, on a broad sheet of silk, at 
the time of the celebration of the opening of the Erie Canal, 1825. Nothmg is 
known of the writer. 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The work of many a freeman's hand, 
A brave, a bold, a noble band — 
The guardians of this happy land, 
The conquerers of Lake Erie. 

Buffalo, — ! who can ever view 
These works so grand, these scenes so new, 
And not admire, and love thee, too, 
Thou child of ancient Erie ? 

Around thy paths I love to roam, 
For every house is here a home ; 
I bless the hour when first I come 
To meet with thee and Erie. 

! who will not this day rejoice, 
And lift on high his grateful voice ? 
Come — men and women, girls and boys, 
Shout for Buffalo and Lake Erie ! 

This happy day shall ever be 
Remembered as a jubilee ; 
The Lakes, the Rivers, join the Sea, 
The Ocean weds Lake Erie. 



HONORABLE JESSE WALKER 



HONORABLE JESSE WALKER 

INVOCATION TO GENIUS 

Extract. 

Child of the skies ! spark of celestial fire ! 

Yet doomed on earth awhile in man to burn 
With bright and transient gleams and then expire, 

Thy reign no bounds — thy flight has no return. 

Thy course, forever onward, cannot learn 
The mystery of thy being ; nor thought define, 

Nor yet the workings of thyself discern. 
Must Reason then o'er thee her power resign, 
Nor hope to know thy destiny— thy source divine? 

Waked into birth by Nature's kindly care, 
And from his silent slumbers roused to fill 

The measure of the soul, who shall declare 
The limits of that high, mysterious skill 
That taught the noblest powers of mind distill 

From Nature's works their sweets, nor yet to find 
Throughout the valley, verdant plain, or hill, 

A spot whereon to rest in peace resigned, 

But yet must rove through all creation unconfined. 

Such is the flight that Genius takes around 
The viewless regions of the boundless skies, 

That naught of sight remains unseen, or sound 
Unheard in all the lovely tones that rise 
In song, or scenes designed for mortal eyes ; 

3 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

But various views and harmonies combined 

By Nature's plastic hand, with glad surprise 
Do charm the finer feelings of the mind, 
And blend in that consistent piece, by Heaven 
designed. 

Borne on the ceaseless wing of Time along, 
Like burning stars that shoot athwart the sky, 

Now seen to fall, and now his course prolong — 
Now to depart, yet ever linger nigh — 
Immortal Genius wings his way on high, 

While Reason's powers her brightest gems display, 
At first to shine, and then in darkness die ; 

The vast extent of earth and air survey, 

Nor yet the laws of matter or of mind obey. 

His ever kind regard no favorite knows ; 

The friend of all — of every art the pride — 
Alike on rich and poor his smile bestows, 

And gives to them the boon by wealth denied. 

To him imagination opens wide 
Her shining gates, and quick appears a scene 

With every sight, and sound, and sense supplied, 
Where gentle rivers roll the hills between. 
And shades and fragrant flowers adorn the vales 
of green. 

Let Genius here his nobler powers display — 
With living laurels crown the Statesman's fame; 

Let Liberty here shine with purest ray, 
And youthful Patriots guard the sacred flame ! 



HONORABLE JESSE WALKER 

Here let the Muse's deathless notes proclaim 
The beauty of the bright and glittering gems 

That shine around immortal Franklin's name, 
Till every tongue the ruthless hand contemns 
That tears one wreath from off our nation's 
diadems. 

Let Virtue's consecrated temple rise 

From its broad basis to the lofty spire ; 
Of genius claim the holy sacrifice 

That Love, and Hope, and Truth divine inspire. 

Let Folly, Sin, and Crime in shame retire ; 
Let proud Oppression meet his fearful doom, 

And hated Vice with mournful sighs expire ; 
Let Freedom live the while in vernal bloom, 
And sing her solemn dirge around the Patriot's 
tomb ! 



LET LOVE ABIDE FOREVER 

Let Love abide forever ! 

Thus did Affection sing — 
Thus wrote the faithful lover 

Upon a golden ring ; 
He gave it to his love — 

She vowed to keep it ever ; 
Witnessed the stars above — 

" Let Love abide forever ! " 

Let Love abide forever, 

Nor think the date too long ; 
5 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

In vain might Time endeavor 

To swell its sweetest song. 
I'm bound to thee with bonds 

Which earth may not dissever; 
Thy look of love responds 

" Let Love abide forever ! " 

Let Love abide forever ! 

Though mourning on us come 
And sorrows round us hover, 

Love rest upon our home. 
When in affliction's hour 

May holy friendship ever 
Exclaim with softening power, 

" Let Love abide forever !" 

Let Love abide forever ; 

It was not born to die ! 
Who shall its life recover, 

When falls its dying; sigh? 
Yes — Love shall live, though death 

Our earthly ties should sever, 
And sigh our dying breath, 

" Let Love abide forever !" 



SATUEDAY EVENING 

The work of labor now is done, and rest 
Awaits the happy millions that repose 
Upon the lap of ease. Content is there, 
To whisper of the promises of Hope — 

G 



HONORABLE JESSE WALKER 

Of Hope, the bright-winged messenger of peace. 

For who, that meets this hour aright, but feels 

An inward flow of joy which lifts the soul 

To elevated themes and holy thoughts, 

Meant for the morrow ? Him I envy not 

Who would not claim these feelings as his own. 

Not all unpleasing is the evening walk, 

The gaze upon the stars, whose steady eyes 

Have never failed of lustre since the day 

The Great Eternal bathed the world in light. 

The moon, more proud, but less sublime, walks up 

The sky and boasts her brighter than the clouds, 

Whose shade but helps to give her glory. These, 

The balmy air, the crickets' song, and all 

The soft accordances of evening, mould 

The thoughts in harmony ; but he who views 

This scene alone, can see and feel but half 

The beauty. Happy he that knows there's one 

Who would be with him in this quiet hour. 

THE HEARTHSTONE 

Pro Aris et Focis. — Cicero. 

Deep in the solitude 
Of the darkened wood, 
Where never hut had stood, 

With hammer alone, 
Fast by a ledge of rocks, 
A man of youthful locks, 
With oft repeated knocks 

Had shaped a hearthstone. 

7 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

With trunks of trees, he there, 
In rudely measured square, 
Built up a cottage where 

She he loved would come ; 
With lusty arm and lone. 
He raised and bore the stone, 
While Hope alone looked on, 

To his rustic home. 

Years have passed away ; 
'Tis a bright morn in May ; 
Children are at play — 

A daughter and son. 
A happy home is there, 
And the bright altar, where 
Uprise both praise and prayer, 

Is the old hearthstone. 

Day swiftly follows day ; 
The world calls them away — 
Those children at their play — 

Sister and brother. 
Far, far away they roam, 
But back to blessings come, 
To happy hearth and home, 

For father, mother. 

Another year has fled, 
And one of these is dead ; 
For him a prayer is said, 
Each day returning; 
The other, aged grown, 



HONORABLE JESSE WALKER 

With widowed heart, alone, 
Upon the old hearthstone 

Keeps love's light burning. 

And there, by day and night, 
That flame of holiest light 
She watcheth sweetly bright, 

And will not falter. 
God ! such love that gave, 
When she is in the grave ! 
That ancient hearthstone save! 

It is thine Altar. 



ADDRESS SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE BUFFALO 

THEATER, JUNE 22, 1835 

Extract. 

Hail to thee, City !— the home of the free ! 

Come thou, the child of the Drama to greet. 
Hail to thy children as well as to thee !— 

The child of the Drama, they joyous shall meet. 
Ye, who have listened to the son of song, 

While oft Avith angel-touch he swept the lyre ; 
Ye, who of music would the notes prolong, 

Or feel the flame that Genius may inspire ; 
Ye, who would praise the arts divine, that make 
The lifeless marble into being wake, 
And to the canvas rude, the hues impart 
That bid to life the form of beauty start- 
Let noble sentiments your mind engage — 
Salute ye now the Genius of the Stage ! 

9 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The Drama comes, we trust, a welcome guest, 
And owns your home the Mistress of the West. 
Alive to finer feelings of the soul, 
Let Genius now your willing hearts control. 
And here may Virtue's purest spirit breathe 
On him whose brow the laurels love to wreathe. 
Let sympathy with sweet amusement flow, 
To cheer, with blissful hopes, the heirs of woe. 
Let Charity, the child of Heaven, descend — 
In him she'll find a brother and a friend. 
The orphan's grief he soothes with accents mild, 
While yet he owns himself a joyless child. 
O'er all the world is Genius doomed to roam — 
With thee, fair City, may he find a home. 
He chose thee from the little and the great, 
The fairest daughter of the " Empire State." 



TEHOSEKORON^ 

beautiful and softly-flowing river, 
The gentlest of the torrent's daughters, 

Departed hath the forest-child forever 
From the green margin of thy waters. 

Thy banks of beauty once were clothed with wild- 
ness; 
Of feeling, then, there was no coldness ; 
The bravest heart was tempered well with mild- 
ness, — 
The weakest one full high with boldness. 

* The Indian came of Buffalo River. 

10 



HONORABLE JESSE WALKER 

No barge, with whitened sail, the lake was sweep- 
ing; 

All round the shore the shades were waving ; 
The waters, now, within were sweetly sleeping, 

And now the banks were softly laving. 

The red man there his bark canoe was rowing, 

And woman little ones caressing ; 
The beauteous flowers in wild luxuriance growing; 

Great Spirit ! thou didst give the blessing. 

And when the warrior, from the chase returning, 
Beheld his children's smiling brightness, 

And holy love on fireside altars burning, 

His bosom swelled with buoyant lightness. 

Here breathed the poetry of love's devotion, 
And burst the laugh of bounding gladness ; 

The spirit struggled here with deep emotion, 
When dimmed its light a shade of sadness. 

And when he felt the frost of age advancing, 
The chieftain told his thrilling story 

To fearless children round the war-fire dancing, 
Of deeds that built the hero's glory. 

When bound him Death, within his soothing slum- 
bers, 
His tomb unmarked by stone or willow, 
Sung then his funeral dirge the wind's wild num- 
bers, 
The moss-grown rock his dying pillow. 
11 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Now perished hath his bright, ethereal vision ; 

The red man's glory hath departed ; 
Great Spirit ! grant a sweet Elysium 

To beings here but broken-hearted. 

Mid blooming vales and gently rising mountains, 
With ivory bow and golden quiver, 

Give them, Heaven, to drink at crystal fountains, 
And hunt along the rolling river. 

The arrow's point with string elastic throwing, 
Give them to guide with aim unbending ; 

happiness, in peaceful streamlets flowing, 
Grant them the bliss of life unending. 



12 



BRYANT BURWELL 
BRYANT BURWELL 

ON THE DEATH OF MARY BURWELL 

Farewell, dear child — we humbly bow 
To Heaven's decree, and yield thee now; 
But oh ! what keen emotions rise, 
While thus we make the sacrifice. 

Forgive, sweet child, the falling tear; 
Though brief has been thy life's career— 
Yet in our hearts shall ever dwell 
The thoughts of her we've loved so well. 

We've seen thy infant dawn disclose, 
Fair, as in June the opening rose ; — 
But sickness came, with withering blight, 
And thou art gone to realms of light. 

Parental love delights to trace 
Thy mental beauty's nameless grace, — 
With all th' affections deep and strong 
That e'er to childhood could belong. 

Farewell, dear Mary ! —rest in peace ; — 
Thy parents' sorrow soon will cease ; 
To us, with thee, will then be given 
The richest joys of pitying Heaven. 
October 18, 1836. 



13 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



MARGARET McKENNA 

(Mrs. John A. Ditto) 
LINES ON THE REMOVAL OF A FAVORITE TREE 

Farewell, old Tree ! mine eyes have seen 

Their last of all thy strength and pride; 
Gone are thy leaves and foliage green, 

And all thy branches scattered wide ; 
Yet ere the spoiler's ruthless hand 

Had dared thy beauty to efface 
Thou wert the noblest of the land, 

The loveliest, dearest of thy race. 

How oft beneath thy spreading shade, 

In childhood's merry, thoughtless hours, 
With gentle spirits here I played, 

And deemed thee coolest, best of bowers ; 
Within thy sheltering boughs the bird 

Was wont to build her tiny nest, 
The soft south breezes, too, have stirred 

Thy leaves, and lulled my heart to rest. 

Long years may pass, and still thy fate 

Forever shall remembered be, 
For linked with thee in social state 

Are recollections dear to me. 
May I, old Tree, when life has fled, 

And earth receives its kindred clay, 
Have one to drop upon my bed 

The tears that memory loves to pay. 

February 24, 1848. 

14 



EDWARD CHRISTY 



EDWARD CHRISTY 

BUFFALO GALS 

As Published with the Music and Copyrighted by William Hall & Bon, 
New York, in 1848. 

As I was lurab'ring down de street, 

Down de street, 

Down de street, 
A handsome gal I chanc'd to meet ; 

Oh ! she was fair to view. 
Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? 

Can't you come out to-night? 

Can't you come out to-night? 
Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night 
And dance by de light ob de moon? 

I ax'd her would she hab some talk, 

Hab some talk, 

Hab some talk, 
Her feet covered up de whole sidewalk 

As she stood close by me. 
Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? 

Can't you come out to-night? 

Can't you come out to-night ? 
Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night 
And dance by de light ob de moon? 

I ax'd her would she hab a dance, 
Hab a dance, 
Hab a dance, 

15 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

I taught dat I might get a chance 

To shake a foot wid her. 
Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? 

Can't you come out to-night? 

Can't you come out to-night? 
Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night 
And dance by de light ob de moon ? 

I'd like to make dat gal my wife, 

Gal my wife, 

Gal my wife, 
I'd be happy all my life, 

If I had her by me. 
Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? 

Can't you come out to-night? 

Can't you come out to-night ? 
Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night 
And dance by de light ob de moon ? 



16 



A. TRACY 
A. TRACY 

THE WOODSAWYER 

By the crowded thoroughfare all day long 

The Sawyer plies his trade ; 
Ever and aye to the passing throng 
Sounding a solo, deep and strong, 

From the cord-wood round him laid. 

And a very notable wight he is, 

That none may overslaugh ; 
We might forty times freeze, in a land like this, 
And many things find to go all amiss, 

But for him of the buck and saw. 

Maple and birch, and the green beech wood, 

He taketh them— straight or askew — 
Each one at its worth, like his evil and good, 
Nor worketh as one in a dainty mood 
With the task he is set to do. 

For an iron grip has the hand, I wot, 

That driveth his keen-set blade ; 
And his mailed knee huggeth the log's rough butt 
As if it were Poverty's self he'd got, 

Like a victim fairly laid. 

The splinter shrieks, and the knot provokes 

His steel in its path, mayhap, 
But deeper it sinks with his sturdy strokes 

17 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And the dusts pulse out, amid groans and chokes, 
Till the last tough fibres snap. 

You might deem in the crowds that come and go, 

In an ever-shifting scene, 
There were few on him a thought to bestow — 
The old Woodsawyer, poor and low, 

Plying a task so mean. 

But in many a glance that him espied, 

How did the envy lurk ! 
Oh, he had no heart from men to hide — 
No honor lost — no thorning pride — 

Nor was he ashamed to work ! 

Stick after stick, with a patient toil, 

That heeds no passing thing, 
Till his dusts spread ankle deep the soil, 
And the lopt logs lay, like a noble spoil, 

Heaped round in half a ring, 

Ready to split and pile for a host 

Of worthy uses free, — 
For the week-day bake, and the Sunday roast, 
And to boil the kettle and brown the toast, 

When the ladies come for tea. 

It may be, too, when the snows come on, 
And the panes are feathered with cold, 

To crackle and glow on the gray hearthstone, 

Cheering the heart of the orphan one, 
Or the beggar, poor and old. 

18 



A. TRACY 

Little the Sawyer gets for his job, 

But he hath a conscience true; 
And the shilling he puts in his olden fob, 
He knoweth he did not filch nor rob, 

But earned as a Man may do. 

That little, too, it serveth his ends, 

And keepeth his state, and all ; 
For the Sawyer's worth among his friends 
Is based no whit on the money he spends, 

Or the lackeys at his call. 

And who so lordly at eventide, 

When he doth his good buck sling ! 
The crowd, I wot, before his stride, 
Though they may not bow, will their ranks divide, 

As soon as for a king ! 

His wife is glad when at last he comes, 

And the wee ones at his knees ; 
They're not so stuffed with cakes and plums 
As to sicken and fret — so he picks his crumbs, 

And smokes his pipe in peace. 

The Sawyer's saw ! There be others instead, 

From learned lips that fall ; 
But the plain old saw to earn his bread, 
And a roof provide to shelter his head, 

Is the noblest saw of all ! 

Buffalo, March, 1849. 



19 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 
THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 

THE LAUNCH OF THE GRIFFIN 

Within Cayuga's forest shade 

The stocks were set — the keel was laid — 

Wet with the nightly forest dew, 

The frame of that first vessel grew. 

Strange was the sight upon the brim 

Of the swift river, even to him, 

The builder of the bark, — 
To see its artifical lines 
Festooned with summer's sudden vines, 

Another New World's ark. 

As rounds to ripeness manhood's schemes 

Out of youth's fond, disjointed dreams, 

So ripened in her kindred wood 

That traveller of the untried flood 

And often as the evening sun 

Gleamed on the group, their labor done — 
The Indian prowling out of sight 
Of corded friar and belted knight — 

He smiled upon them as they smiled, 

The builders on the bark — their child ! 

The hour has come; upon the stocks 
The masted hull already rocks— 

20 



THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 

The mallet in the master's hand 
Is poised to launch her from the land. 
Beside him, partner of his quest 
For the great river of the West, 
Stands the adventurous Recollet, 
Whose page records that anxious day. 
To him the master would defer 
The final act — he will not bear 
That any else than him who planned 
Should launch the Griffin from the land. 
In courteous conflict they contend, 
The knight and priest, as friend with friend- 
In that strange, savage scene ; 
The swift blue river glides before, 
And still Niagara's awful roar 

Booms through the vistas green. 

And now the mallet falls, stroke — stroke — 
On prop of pine and wedge of oak ; 

The vessel feels her way ; 
The quick mechanics leap aside 
As, rushing downward to the tide, 

She dashes them with spray. 
The ready warp arrests her course 
And holds her for awhile perforce, 
While on her deck the merry crew 
Man every rope, loose every clew, 

And spread her canvas free. 
21 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Away ! 'tis done ! the Griffin floats, 
First of Lake Erie's winged boats — 

Her flag, the Fleur-de-lis. 
Gun after gun proclaims the hour, 
As nature yields to human power; 
And now upon the deeper calm 
The Indian hears the holy psalm — 
Laudamus to the Lord of Hosts ! 
Whose name unknown on all their coasts, 
The inmost wilderness shall know, 
Wafted upon yon wings of snow 
That, sinking in the waters blue, 
Seem but some lake-bird lost in view. 

In old romance and fairy lays 
Its wondrous part the Griffin plays ; 
Grimly it guards the gloomy gate 
Sealed by the strong behest of Fate — 
Or, spreading its portentous wings, 
Wafts Virgil to the Court of Kings; 
And unto scenes as wonderous shall 
Thy Griffin bear thee, brave La Salle ! 
Thy winged steed shall stall where grows 
On Michigan the sweet wild rose ; 
Lost in the mazes of St. Clair, 
Shall give thee hope amid despair, 
And bear thee past those Isles of dread 
The Huron peoples with the dead, 

22 



THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 

Where foot of savage never trod 
Within the precinct of his god ; * 
And it may be thy lot to trace 
The footprints of the unknown race 
Graved on Superior's iron shore, 
Which knows their very name no more. 

Through scenes so vast and wondrous shall 
Thy Griffin bear thee, dear La Salle — 
True Wizard of the Wild ! whose art, — 
An eye of power, a knightly heart, 
A patient purpose silence-nursed, 
A high, enduring, saintly trust — 
Are mighty spells — we honor these, 
Columbus of the inland seas ! 



THE IRISH WIFE 

Earl Desmond's Apology. 

I would not give my Irish wife 

For all the dames of the Saxon land ; 
I would not give my Irish wife 

For the Queen of France's hand ; 
For she to me is dearer 

Than castles strong, or lands or life— 
An outlaw — so I'm near her, 

To love till death my Irish wife. 

* The Manitoulin Isles, in Lake Huron, were supposed by the aborigines to 
be the special abode of the great Manitou, and were feared and reverenced 
accordingly. 

23 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Oh, what would be this home of mine — 

A ruined, hermit-haunted place, 
But for the light that nightly shines 

Upon its walls from Kathleen's face? 
What comfort is a mine of gold — 

What pleasure in a royal life, 
If the heart within lay dead and cold, 

If I could not wed my Irish wife? 



I knew the law forbade the banns — 

I knew my king abhorred her race — 
Who never bent before their clans, 

Must bow before their ladies' grace. 
Take all my forfeited domain, 

I cannot wage with kinsmen strife — 
Take knightly gear and noble name, 

And I will keep my Irish wife. 



My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, 

My heaven by day, my star b}^ night, 

And twin-like, truth and fondness lie 
Within her swelling bosom white. 

My Irish wife has golden hair- 
Apollo's harp had once such strings — 

Apollo's self might pause to hear 
Her bird-like carol when she sings. 

24 



THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 

I would not give my Irish wife 

For all the dames of the Saxon land ; 
I would not give my Irish wife 

For the Queen of France's hand ; 
For she to me is dearer 

Than castles strong, or lands, or life — 
In death I would lie near her, 

And rise beside my Irish wife. 



25 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 
GUY H. SALISBURY 

MY MEERSCHAUM 

We are friends together-, we, my pipe and I ; 

In the wintry weather, we, my pipe and I, 

By the happy fireside, as in days gone by, 

Still commune together, we, my pipe and I. 

In the sullen winter, when the snow is falling, 

When the skies are clouded and the winds are 

calling, 
We revive old pleasures— count our hidden treas- 
ures — 
As a miser counts his gold, count we o'er the days 

of old — 
Thus we count them over, we, my pipe and I. 

A quaint old meerschaum is it, the bowl is carved 

exquisite, 
A grim Turk's head 'tis wrought of, as grim as 

e'er was thought of — 
The mouth-piece rarest amber, and its perfume 

fills my chamber, 
Until with smoke 'tis murky, from fragrant weed 

of Turkey — 
And we are friends together, this queer old pipe 

and! 
The fragrant clouds are murky, the Turk seems 

talking Turkey, 
And thus talk we together, the rare old pipe and I. 

20 



GUY II. SALISBURY 

Dearest friends have left me, much has time bereft 

me, 
Bu1 si ill we keep together, we, my pipe and I. 
Cheerful firesides love we, as in days gone by. 
When our fori unes vanish, cares I hey often banish ! 
[f riches go we'll let them, we can soon torgel them, 
And scarcely shall regret them, we, my pipe and I. 
Care we less for treasures than for social pleasures 
Willi the Friends still left us, we, my pipe and I. 

When the smoke is curling, with its curious whirl- 
in < •* 
Trace 1, in the vapor, how our life's brief taper 
Dimly burns and pnleful, in t he darkness baleful — 
Burns ami dies like thee, my pipe, — like niv pipe 

and I! 
When tin- smoke is curling, mazy rings unfurling, 
Just like love it' seemeth, when the young heart 

dreameth. 
Is it thus love goeth, as its passion flowel h ? 
And thus to thin smoke turneth even while it 

burneth? 
Think we thus together, we, my pipe and I. 



"I BCARCE CAN DEEM IT TRUE 

Wiikne'ek I meet some graceful girl 

Whose mother once I knew, 
In years long gone, when we were young, 

I scarce can deem it true 

27 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

That she has grown to womanhood, 
Her child a woman, too ! 

And when I see a prattling babe 

Upon its grandma's knee, 
Who was my little playmate once, 

Perhaps then loved by me, 
It seems a dream — I musing gaze, 

Half doubting, wonderingly! 

The busy years have fled so fast, 

I cannot deem them gone — 
Though youth's companions too have passed, 

While I have wandered on. 
Alas ! how oft their names are found 

Upon the graveyard stone ! 

I stand upon the sandy shore 

Where once I sought the wave, 
And loved to hear the billows roar 

That now my footsteps lave ; 
Where are my mates who sported there ? 

No answer gives the grave ! 

And still the years are crowding on, 

Each leaves some friend behind, 
Until my path is lonely now, 

And scarcely can I find 
Amid the throng that pass along 

One link with human kind ! 

The golden sun is still the same, 
Fair Nature's charms as new, 

28 



GUY H. SALISBURY 

The wild-flower wears as sweet a smile, 

The sky as bright a blue— 
But all things else so changed appear, 

I scarce can deem it true ! 



TO MOLLY 

Little Molly! sprightly elf, 
Frolicsome as mischief's self, 

Pure as moonlight, 

Glad as noonlight, 
May thy heart ne'er yield to folly, 
Charming, darling, little Molly ! 

In life's troubled times of sorrow, 
When I dread the sad to-morrow, 
Thy sweet presence gladness brings, 
And baffled Care takes sudden wiuers— 
For who would woo pale Melancholy 
When dances in dear, bright-eyed Molly? 

Only summers five have shed 
Girlish graces o'er thy head, 
Yet thou winnest love that never 
Seeks those maidens fair, who ever 
Flirt and flaunt— not Maud, nor Polly, 
Kate, nor Jane, can vie with Molly ! 

Sober age loves childhood's smile, 
That weary hours may well beguile ; 
Cheerily doth young heart's laughter 
Cheat of gloom the dark hereafter. 

29 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

E'en a hermit would be jolly, 
For a day, with joyous Molly ! 



Little Molly ! Youth to thee 

Seems a constant holiday ; 

But life's griefs must come ere long, 

As storms will hush the wild bird's song- 

Yet heed not now, and dress thy " dolly," 

For swift flees girlhood, little Molly ! 



LINES WRITTEN ON THE BURNING OF THE AMERICAN 
HOTEL, JANUARY 25, 1865 * 

Oh, Fiend of Fire ! 
Has not old Death enough who wait 
Each step that enters at Life's gate — 
Bloodhounds held in the leash of Fate, 

Whose still feet never tire ? 

The Fiend of War- 
Bed Angel at Death's own right hand — 
Rolls he not o'er the trembling land, 
While troops behind, a myriad band, 

His blood-dyed, crushing car? 

The Fiend Disease, 
With fearful mystic Pestilence, 
Whose unseen stroke appals each sense, 
Sparing nor l T outh nor Innocence, 

Nor maid on bended knees. 

* The death of three young men of social prominence, James H. Sid way, 
William Henry Gillet, and George Henry Tifft, who were killed by a falling 
wall, while serving as volunteer firemen, caused this fire to be long remem- 
bered. 

30 



GUY H. SALISBURY 

The Fiend of Want, 
Who haunts the cabin of the Poor, 
And enters at its humble door, 
Filching away its scanty store, 

With fingers cold and gaunt. 

The Fiend of Crime, 
Who lures within his toils of Sin 
Each soul his hellish art can win — 
And lost each soul who enters in ! — 

Fatal the serpent's slime ! 

Oh, Foes of Man ! 
Doth not, alas ! such stern array 
Call dreadful thoughts, with pale dismay, 
In every heart of human clay? — 

Rests not a fateful ban 

On all who live ■ 
Within this world of saddest strife ? 
League not dire ills against our life, 
Fell woes with which all paths are rife, 

To hunt each fugitive? 

Why, Fiend of Fire ! 
Bring crimson minions of the flame 
Our chosen sons to fiercely claim — 
To bind dear ones, of cherished name, 
Upon thy funeral pyre ? 

Buffalo, Feb. 18, 1865. 



31 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

BUFFALO 

By Erie's blue and sparkling sea 

The tangled forest grew, 
And red men o'er the silver waves 

Paddled the light canoe. 
No pale-face then had sought its shore, 
With rail, or steam, or venturous oar, 

To wake the echoes there ; 
The wild beast ranged the solemn wood 
To find in its dim solitude 

His rude and lonely lair. 

The white men came to make their homes 

Amid the wilderness, 
And back the savage tribes recede 

As on the intruders press. 
The forests sink — the plough's sharp edge 

Soon cleaves the virgin soil, 
And waving harvest-fields repay 

The thoughtful sower's toil. 
The village streets on every side 

Their lengthened lines extend, 
And dwellings rise, whose circling smoke 

From household hearths ascend. 

Fair Commerce comes and spreads the sail, 

Her engines vex the tide, 
And broad canals rich products bear 

To Ocean's distant side. 
Art comes and rears the stately pile — 

Temples of the Living God — 

32 



GUY H. SALISBURY 

And beauteous homes adorn the spot 
Where savage men abode. 

History her classic store outspreads. 

And Genius wakes the lyre, 
And workers shape their wondrous things 

By forge and furnace fire. 
A teeming city stands to-day 

Where once the hamlet stood, 
And lofty spires their shafts uprear 

Where waved the sylvan wood. 

No hoary seat of ancient lore 

Hath here scholastic bowers, 
But Learning yet hath many shrines 

In this dear home of ours. 
The people's sons, or rich or poor, 

Her priceless boon may share, 
And Wisdom's mines reward but toil 

And earnest del vers there. 

The future largest promise gives 

Of glories yet to come, 
And busy Toil shall fill our streets 

With traffic's ceaseless hum. 
"Excelsior" gleams upon the shield 

Borne by our Empire State, 
And its proud motto 'tis our aim 

To grandly emulate ! 



33 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



MRS. H. E. G. AREY 

EXTRACT FROM A POEM ENTITLED "MYSELF 

I always knew how many boughs 

The latest tempest broke, 
And just how far the woodpecker 

Had girdled round the oak. 

I knew the tree where slept the crows, 

And, on the water's brim, 
I climbed among the hemlock boughs 

To watch the fishes swim. 

1 knew, beside the swollen rill, 

What flowers to bloom would burst, 

And where, upon the south-sloped hill, 
The berries ripened first. 

Each violet tuft, each cowslip green, 

Each daisy on the lea, 
I counted one by one — for they 

Were kith and kin to me. 

I knew the moles that dared to claim 

The banished beavers' huts, 
And sat on mossy logs to watch 

The squirrels crack their nuts. 

And they winked slyly at me, too, 

But never fled away, 
For in their little hearts they knew 

That I was wild as they. 

34 



MRS. H. E. G. AREY 

And always in the winter, too, 

Before the breakfast time, 
I wandered o'er the crusted snow 

To hear the waters chime ; 

To see how thick the ice had grown, 

And where the hasty spray 
Its jewels o'er the shrubs had thrown 

In such a curious way; 

And in a little cavern where 
The waters trickled through, 

The shape of every icicle 

That gemmed its sides I knew ; 

For there were hermits' huts, and towers, 

And cities grand and gay, 
And Alpine peaks and tropic flowers, 

And fairer things than they ; 

For oft the sun came glinting through 
The chinks some ice lens spanned, 

And decked in many a rainbow hue 
Those scenes of fairy land. 



GENERAL RILEY 

They bear him forth, they bear him forth, 

And many a cheek is w r et, 
For throngs that mark a hero's worth 

Shall hoard his memory yet ; 

35 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And, linked with many a noble thought, 

The tide of song shall swell 
Aloft, the name of him who fought 

His country's battles well, 
And when the clash of war was o'er, 
The wreath of victory proudly wore. 

He sleeps at last, he sleeps at last ! 

On many a blood-stained plain 
The death-winged volleys o'er him passed, 

And from his brethren slain, 
And from the desert's burning track, 

And from the tropic sky, 
He bore his crown of glory back, 

Amid his friends to die. 
Fold well his mantle round his breast, 
And let the war-scarred hero rest. 

His kindling eye shall flash no more 

'Mid hosts for battle met ; 
His ear shall heed no cannon roar — 

No bugle rouse him yet ; 
The heart that never quailed with fear 

Where fields are lost and won 
Hath met its own stern conqueror here ; 

The soldier's task is done. 
The sword that blazed yon hosts amid 
Lies sheathed upon his coffin lid. 

Aye, pour your martial music forth — 
Bring requiems for the dead, 

36 



MRS. H. E. G. AREY 

And weep that from yon lonely hearth 

A noble heart has fled. 
The wild-wood trees above his tomb 

Their victor-wreaths shall wave, 
And flowers shall waste their early bloom 

In fragrance round his grave. 
Fold well his mantle round his breast, 
And let the war-scarred hero rest. 



RING, ROYAL BELLS 

Ring royal bells — ring out great chime ! 

Thrill with your joy the glowing air! 
Make jubilant this blissful time — 

This hour of hours — this moment rare ! 
Ring royal bells ! peal wide your notes, 
O'er Richmond's town " Old Glory " floats ! 

Roar cannon ! bid the hills resound ! 

Let every flag its folds display ! 
Repeat the good news round and round ; 

The cause of Freedom wins to-day ! 
Aye, pour it from your brazen throats, 
O'er Richmond's walls " Old Glory " floats ! 

Ring bells ! roar cannon ! shout each tongue ! 

The chains have fallen ! the free land lives ! 
Wide be your notes of music flung ! 

The Lord of Hosts our victory gives. 
Peal on, nor let your clangor cease ! 
The victory that foreshadows Peace. 

37 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Oh ! bid the welcome news God-speed, 
Through every vale and hamlet lone, 

On lightning wires, or foaming steed, 
For be our God's great mercy known, 

That to His name all praise may be 

Who giveth us the Victory. 

Their doom was sealed when Grant sat down, 
With his broad brows, and drooping head, 

Calmly before the Rebel town, 

And wove his web with shining thread, — 

The w T eb that all their armies spanned 

And palsied each rebellious hand. 

Like icebergs that the sun has kissed, 
With neither power to fight nor fly ; 

How have their hosts dissolved in mist, 
Exhaled before his lion eye, 

Till w T ild with joy the hills resound 

With conquest sure our arms are crowned. 



THANK GOD! THERE'S STILL A VANGUARD 

Thank God ! there's still a vanguard 

Fighting for the right ! 
Though the throng flock to rearward, 

Lifting, ashen white, 
Flags of truce to sin and error, 
Clasping hands, mute with terror, 
Thank God ! there's still a vanguard 

Fighting for the right. 

38 



MRS. H. E. G. AREY 

Through the wilderness advancing, 

Hewers of the way ; 
Forward far their spears are glancing, 

Flashing back the day. 
" Back !" the leaders cry, who fear them ; 
" Back !" from all the army near them ; 
They with steady tread advancing, 

Cleave their certain way. 

Slay them— from each drop that falleth 

Springs a hero armed ; 
Where the martyr's fire appalleth, 

Lo ! they pass unharmed ; 
Crushed beneath thy wheel, Oppression, 
How their spirits hold possession, 
How the dross-purged voice out-calleth, 

By the death-throes warmed. 

Thank God ! there's still a vanguard 

Fighting for the right ! 
Error's legions know their standard, 

Floating in the light. 
When the league of sin rejoices, 
Quick outsing their rallying voices, — 
Thank God ! there's still a vanguard 

Fighting for the right ! 



39 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

i've met her 

I've met her many a day, 
With a soft child-like footstep hurrying by, 

And ever, like the summer's sunniest ray, 
That vision flits before my raptured eye. 

Morning's first beam 
Portrays the image to my wakening sight, 

And glorious still, in every changing dream, 
She flits before me like a thing of light. 

In color, like pale gold 
Are the soft locks that round her forehead twine 

And wreathe in many a bright and waving fold 
The breeze-blown roses from her cheeks that shine. 

A warm, pure smile she wears, 
And the clear brow of one whose steps have trod 

Along life's path, unwitting of its cares, 
Half-way from infancy to womanhood. 

And from her heaven-tinged eyes 
A glance of confidence and love looks forth, — 

The upward gushing of a fount that lies 
Deep-hid, and guileless of the taints of earth. 

The name she bears 
I have not learned, nor questioned ; 'tis enough 

To gaze upon a face like that she wears, 
And bear its memory on life's journey rough. 

It makes a glow 
In the sad, homeless heart, and bids it turn 

40 



MRS. H. E. G. AREY 

Back from the crowded page of human woe, 
And more of life's free, priceless blessings learn. 

Like a, kind word 
To the faint pilgrim, on his weary way, 

The warm heart-sunshine of her look hath 
stirred 
My heart's sweet waters into joyous play. 

What I have said — 
That she hath breathed the breeze on Erie's shore, 

And trod the walks that, day by day, I tread, 
And quaffed the light, —this know I, and no more. 

But there shall dwell, 
Ever, a grateful feeling in my heart, 

To those who trained that heaven-born soul so 
well 
And Him who could such matchless grace impart. 

For unto me 
It hath been like the gifts of light, or air, 

Or bursting flowers— more prized because I see 
The holy smile of Heaven reflected there. 



THE DEAD OFF CAPE EACE 

The blanching wave along Cape Race in terror 
shrieks and foams, 
While broods above the restless sea the Phan- 
tom of Despair ; 

41 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The waves have quenched the love-light that lit a 
hundred homes ; 
The music of a myriad hearts lies hushed for- 
ever there. 

And human sorrow o'er that spot full long shall 
watch and weep, 
And hear again its moan of Death — its trumpet- 
blast of woe, 
Though still the sun in beauty rides above that 
charnel deep — 
That ship that hath the waves above, and 
gallant hearts below. 

Calmly to that baptismal font of future life they 
went, 
For whom the welcome fires were lit by earthly 
hearthside fair. 
A rush of spirit wings proclaimed their flight far 
heavenward bent, 
And wherefore keeps that sullen sea its croak- 
ings of despair? 

Ah, swiftly closed Death's temple- vail, and Heaven 
hath shut them in, 
And to the fiery storm of grief the quivering 
heart lies bare ; 
While white with terror on Cape Race still foams 
the sounding main, 
The love-light of a hundred homes lies quenched 
forever there. 



42 



AGNES D. EMERSON 



AGNES D. EMERSON* 

I SIT ALONE 

• Rainy is the sky ! 

And the winds are blowing cool 
Over the splashing pool, 
The clayey ooze and the drowned grass, 
And lashing the lengths of rain, as they pass, 
Like scourges against my window glass, 
With many a sough and sigh. 

And here I sit alone, 
Though the world is a full, and a broad, and 
a deep 
With nothing but winds to help me moan, 
And nothing but rains to help me weep. 

My heart, like that strange druidical stone 

That is poised on a desolate cliff in Wales, 
In its native midnight, unseen and unknown, 

Is rocked by passionate gales. 

But of all my sorrows, it is most sad 
To keep sighing still, in this dreary tone: 

' ' I once had friends —I had — I had !' ' 
Ah, heart ! to think that this dark old house 

Once echoed with voices and steps more glad 
Than those of the cricket and the mouse ! 
My eyes are tear-blinded, but full are my ears 

Of a melancholy sound of rain — 
Of rain upon the roof; 

* Probably an assumed name. The writer is unknown. 

43 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Till I dream that all moments which filled the 
train 
Of many and many departed years, 

Are hurried back, at my soul's behoof — 
On airy bridges I hear them cross, 

Those numberless little trampling feet — 

Above me they go with a rapid beat, 

And my heart is o'erflo wed with a sudden sweet. 
Now — now to recover all its loss ! 

Now — now — and I almost think to meet 
The old-time glances of laughing eyes, 
Till the loud wind wakes, with its startling sighs, 
The thought that never dies : 

That here I sit alone, 
Though the world is a full, and a broad, and 
a deep, 

With nothing but winds to help me moan, 
And nothing but rains to help me weep. 



44 



RACHEL BUCHANAN GILDERSLEEVE 



RACHEL BUCHANAN GILDERSLEEVE 

Later Mrs. Gildersleeve Longstreet 
HOMESICK 

Homesick for the waves' low murmur by blue 

Erie's pebbled shore, 
Homesick for the vines that clamber lovingly 

about my door, 
Homesick for familiar faces that will smile on me 

no more. 
Homesick for the days now ended, passed from 

sunshine into gloom, 
Homesick in this stately palace, where a fettered 

child I roam ; 
Homesick in the frescoed grandeur for my dear old 

cottage home. 
Homesick for the silent voices — tones whose 

melody has ceased, 
Homesick in this worldly bondage, struggling to 

be released ; 
Homesick at this splendid banquet, longing for a 

simpler feast. 
Homesick for the dewy roses— roses are not 

fragrant here, 
Homesick for the stars above them — there they 

seem so very near, 
Bending downward in the twilight; now they 

glitter far and drear. 
45 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And the arras of the present lifts its foldings in 

my sleep, 
And the blossoms, stars and loved ones waft me 

benedictions deep, 
And the morning, nor the real, cannot clutch the 

kiss I keep. 
Necromancers, weird and pitying, take me back in 

dreams to dwell, 
Soothe my lonely, homesick spirit — string the lute 

and mend the shell ; 
And I sing, and sing, and listen, under memory's 

subtle spell. 

SUMMERS THAT WERE 

White ripples rose up with a low, sweet song, 
And music swept over my young heart's core; 

They chanted and laughed the green summer long, 
And they'll ripple and chant no more, no more! 

They petted the shells on the low, sloped shore, 
Those waves with a silvery, floating fringe ; 

And brought to them hues from coraline caves, 
To give to their lips a rosier tinge. 

How silent I sit in the spring's soft glow, 
And leashes of light, and violets stir, 

Bring back, with the deep sea's musical flow, 
Memory's mirage of summers that were. 

Weird minnesingers, whom nobody hears, 
Faces of angels whom nobody sees, 

46 



RACHEL BUCHANAN GXLDERSLEEVE 

Bring me the summers long buried with tears, 
And tell their clays over in moments like these. 

Blow, blow to me, south wind, bring my dreams 
back, 
With surging of ocean, and sea-shell's hum, 
Then manna shall drop on my desolate track, 
And out from the vanished years, happiness 
come. 

ripples, rise up with your low, soft song! 

Sweet music, sweep over my sad heart's core ! 
'Twill seem like the tones of that jubilant throng, 

Who drifted from life, leaving me on the shore. 
Brooklyn, N. Y. 



MRS. LOFTY AND I 

Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage, 

So do I ; 
She has dappled greys to draw it, 

None have I ; 
With my blue-eyed, laughing baby 

Trundling by, 
I hide his face, lest she should see 
The cherub boy and envy me. 

Her fine husband has white fingers, 

Mine has not; 
He could give his bride a palace — 

Mine, a cot ; 

47 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Her's comes home beneath the starlight — 

Ne'er cares she ; 
Mine comes in the purple twilight, 

Kisses me, 
And prays that He who turns life's sands, 
Will hold his loved ones in His hands. 

Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, 

So have I ; 
She wears her's upon her bosom — 

Inside, I ; 
She will leave her's at Death's portals, 

Bye and bye ; 
I shall bear my treasures with me 

When I die ; 
For I have love and she has gold — 
She counts her wealth — mine can't be told. 

She has those who love her, — station, 

None have I ; 
But I've one true heart beside me, — 

Glad am I ; 
I'd not change it for a Kingdom, 

No, not I ; 
God will weight it in His balance, 

Bye and bye ; 
And the difference define 
'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. 



48 



REV. JOHN C. LORD, D.D. 
Rev. JOHN C. LORD, D.D. 

BUFFALO 

Queen of the Lakes, whose tributary seas 
Stretch from the frozen regions of the North 

To southern climates, where the wanton breeze 
O'er field and forest goes rejoicing forth, 

As Venice to the Adriatic vSea 

Was wedded in her brief, but glorious day, 
So broader, purer waters are for thee, 

To whom a thousand streams a dowry pay. 

What tho' the wild winds o'er thy waters sweep, 
Wliile lingering Winter howls along thy shore, 

And solemnly "deep calleth unto deep" 

While storm and cataract responsive roar. 

'Tis music fitting for the brave and free, 

Where enterprise and commerce vex the waves ; 

The soft, voluptuous airs of Italy 

Breathe among ruins, and are woo'd by slaves. 

Thou art the sovereign city of the lakes, 

Crowned and acknowledged ; may thy fortunes 
be 

Vast as the domain which thine empire takes, 
And onward, as thy waters to the sea. 

49 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

\K\Y CEMETERY NEAK BUFFALO 

Place for the dead— 

Not in the noisy city's crowd ami glare, 
By heated walls and dusty streets, but where 
The balmy breath of the free summer air 
Moves murmuring softly o'er the new-made grave, 
Hustling among the boughs which wave 
Above the dwellers there. 

Rest for the dead- 
Far, far from the turmoil and strife of trade, 
Let the broken house of the soul be laid, 
Where the violets blossom in the shade, 
And the voices of nature do softly fall 
O'er the silent sleepers ail- 
Where rural graves are made. 

Room for the dead— 
Away from the crowded and ghastly caves. 
Where the dead lie heaped and the thick-strewn 

graves 
Do jostle each other like following waves— 
In the place where earth's broad bosom yields, 
Room for the dead, in woods and fields, 

Which dying nature craves. 

Place for the dead— 

In the quiet glen where the wild vines creep, 
And the desolate mourner may wait and weep, 
In some silent place, o'er the loved who sleep ; 

50 



REV. JOHN C LORD, D.D. 

Nor sights, nor sounds profane, disturb their 

moan— 
Willi God and with the dead alone— 
" Deep calleth unto deep." 

Elest for I he dead — 
Away from all walls — where the wild bird sing 
And the hurrying cloud Lts shadow flin$ 
O'er streamlet and rock, where the ivy clings 
To the ancient oak— the dead should lie, 
Till on the ear of death the <-ry 

Of final judgment rings. 

Room for the dead— 
The living wait their doom, the guy. 1 he stri 
The beautiful— together soon musi 1 hrong 
The doors of deal h, and I hey who mourn, ere long 
Must lie with kindred dust, and soon or late, 
All pass the ever open gate — 

Room — room — Oh ! give them room! 



forward! march! 

Dedicated to the Union Continentals by their Chaplaia. 

Fob altars and for firesides, 
For the country and for God, 

For the State our fathers founded, 
For the soil on which they trod, 

For loyal brethren trembling 
Beneath a traitor's nod- 
Forward ! March! 

51 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

From the rugged wilds of Maine, 

From New Hampshire's mountains gray, 

From Freedom's wave-washed cradle 
By Massachusetts Bay, 

From all New England's valleys 

And hilltops, far away — 

Forward! March! 

From the basin of the Hudson, 

From the cities on its shore, 
From the borders of the stormy Lakes 

Who wake Niagara's roar, 
From Pennsylvania's fields of coal 

And her beds of iron ore — 
Forward ! March ! 

From fair Ohio's loyal States, 

From all her fertile plains, 
From every flower-clad prairie 

Which the Mississippi drains, 
From California's rocky walls, 

Rich with their golden veins — 
Forward! March! 

From Treason's prostrate bulwarks, 
Where the vaunting foe was met, 

Where rebel standards fell before 
The avenging bayonet ; 

From Cumberland's ensanguined shore, 
With blood of Patriots wet — 
Forward ! March ! 

52 



REV. JOHN C. LORD, D.D. 

From the Potomac's guarded banks, 
From the shores of the Tennessee, 
From Hatteras to Hilton Head, 

From Pickens and Tybee ; 
From every point on every line 
From the mountains to the sea — 
Forward ! March ! 

For altars and for firesides, 
For the Country and for God, 

For the State our fathers founded, 
For the soil on which they trod, 

For loyal brethren trembling 
Beneath a traitor's nod — 
Forward! March! 



TO JAMES O. PUTNAM, ESQ. 

How often, James, thy thoughts do overleap 
The narrow boundary of our working life, 
Which seems to thee but an ignoble strife, 

Where none do walk upright, but only creep 

To their mean ends ; a harvest, w T hich to reap 
Demands a hardened heart and sharpened knife, 
A soul with petty, selfish interests rife. 

So gifted men repine ; yet in the deep 
And awful counsels of the Eternal King, 

Our daily life doth make our destiny ; 
For this world's labors no defilement bring 

53 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

To him who, faithful in his passing day, 

Knows that its fleeting moments ever fling 
Their lasting shadows on Eternity. 



TO A FLOWER IN THE DESERT 

Suggested by an incident in the life of Mungo Park, the African Traveler. 

Sweet Flower, lone dweller in the Desert Wild ! 

Drinking the scanty dews, and cherished there 

By Him who made thee ; e'en the tainted air 
And driving sands did pass thee undefiled 
And blooming still ; a Traveler, beguiled 

By mocking Mirage, wandered feebly where 

Thy tiny blossoms blushed ; in dull despair 
He laid him down, and feeble as a child, 

Hungry and faint, he cast all hope away ; 
But God had planted thee his life to save ; 

For when he spied thee as he listless lay, 
His heart revived, he thought of Him who gave 

Life to the desert flower and rose to pray, 
And long years after found another grave. 



u 



EMILY BRYANT LORD 



EMILY BRYANT LORD 

HYMN FOR THE VOICELESS 

From "Hymns and Songs for the Voiceless." 

Maker of earth, and sea, and sky, 

Creation's Sovereign, Lord and King, 

Who hung the starry worlds on high, 
And formed alike the sparrow's wing, 

Bless the dumb creatures of Thy care, 

And listen to their voiceless prayer. 

For us they toil, for us they die, — 

These humbler creatures God has made; 

How shall we dare their rights deny 
On whom God's seal of love is laid ! 

Kindness to them is mercy's plea, 

So deal with them as God with thee. 



55 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



DAVID WENTWORTH 

LAMENT OF THE GREEK SLAVE 

This chain ! this chain ! 

Why should I fettered be? 
I sigh — I pant in vain 

For liberty ! 

Across the sea's salt foam, 

To my own wild mountain home, 

They ruthless came ; 
And as I chased life's sunny hours away, 

With hopes as bright, 

And steps as light, 
As any woodland fay — 

They seized my trembling frame. 

I saw my brothers die ; 

I felt my mother's pains ; 

I saw my sire with bleeding veins 
Across the threshold lie ; 
And he who taught me first to love — 

Who claimed me for his bride — 
His valiant soul disdained to yield ; 
His trusty sword I saw him wield ; 
But all in vain — in vain he strove, 

And all in vain he died ! 

Could fate be more unkind ? 
My sisters, too, with arms entwined 
About my neck did vainly cling, 

56 



DAVID WENTWORTH 

As if to seize my parting breath. 
They too, they too, oh, God ! must feel this sting 
That's worse than death ! 

What am I now? what must I be? 
Like the keen dagger's piercing steel 
Within my breast I shuddering feel, 

And the dread future see. 
Was there no friendly blade, 
Which such sad havoc made 

'Mong those I loved, reserved for me? 

My heart — my heart is desolate, 
And not one ray of sunshine lingers there; 
No hope — no sense, but that of misery, left. 
Of friends, of home, of love and Heaven bereft, 
Not even death will save me from despair ; 

Too well, alas ! too well, I know my fate. 

Could I but free these arms, 
I'd rend these hated charms 

From off my brow, 
Which Heaven so kindly gave — 
And he has praised so oft 

Who now 
By Moslem tongues so vilely scoffed, 

Lies in a bloody grave. 

But ah, this chain ! this chain ! 

It fetters life to me; 
I sigh — I pant in vain 

For liberty! 

57 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 
MATILDA H. STUART 

NOVEMBER 

Month of my birth, I bring to thee 

This tribute of my fond regret, 
And bind around thy solemn brow 

The few bright leaves that linger yet. 
Thou art the Anchorite of months, 

Thou turnest from their hope and bloom, 
And clad in mantle brown and gray, 

Art moving onward into gloom. 

The Springtime hath its fragrant buds, 

Its whispers from the birds and streams, 
And Summer blushes into life 

The April loves and May-day dreams ; 
September bears her wealth of grain ; 

October, nuts and leaves of gold — 
And even Winter, with its snow 

" Rings in the new, rings out the old." 

But thou, November, thou art left 

With few to sigh for all thy woes, 
None dare to kiss the Anchorite, 

Or e'en to bless him ere he goes. 
The cynic greets thee with a sneer, 

The sceptic draws his text from thee, 
And boasts that heart and soul alike, 

Shall share thy cheerless destiny. 

58 



MATILDA H. STUART 

But, dear old hermit, I will come 

And press my lips upon thy brow ; 
I care not, though a woman's love 

Should tempt thee to forget thy vow. 
For thou to me, like all things here, 

Hast gleams of Eden in thy face, 
And somewhere in thy brooding heart 

There must be still a sunny place. 

I find it in the few bright hours 

That warmly bear the Indian's name, 
And oft-times tremble through thy gloom, 

Like love-light o'er the brow of shame. 
Thy fallen leaves and withered boughs 

Forget to rustle and to sigh, 
And folded in a soft embrace, 

Seem grateful thus to dream and die. 

To me these parting looks of thine 

Seem like diviner rays that come 
To light the dying hours of those 

Whose weary feet are almost home ; 
Whose furrowed brows and silver hair 

Speak of life's spring and summer past,— 
Of golden fruit and garnered grain, 

And its November time at last. 

! if upon my path must rest 

My birth-month's rain and gloom and chill, 
If dreary days and starless nights 

Are waiting for my footsteps still,— 

59 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

I ask that, in my parting hours, 
The rays of faith and hope divine 

May come, like Indian Summer's glow, 
To warm and cheer this heart of mine. 

Then while my eyes will fondly rest 

On this dear world which God hath made 
So full of hopes, so full of loves, 

So warm with sun, so cool with shade — 
Yet will they greet the spirit-face 

Of one, my dearest, gone before, 
Who waits for her November child, 

To fold her to her heart once more. 



POEM 

Read at the tenth anniversary of the founding of the Buffalo Fine Arts 
Academy, December s;3, 1872. 

Tread lightly with unsandaled feet, 

The place is hallowed here, 
We come to consecrate our child 

In its decennial year. 
This hour hath breathings of its own, 

They come from every clime 
Where stone or canvass had portrayed 

The tender or sublime. 

Our Priestess, Art, is standing here 

With robes as pure and white 
As when we brought our artist child, 

Ten years ago to-night. 

60 



MATILDA H. STUART 

Baptismal vows were uttered then, 
And sponsors gave the name, 

And from the altar of our hearts, 
The fragrant incense came. 

And now the priestess gently smiles 

"And through her lips of air," 
She breathes them o'er and o'er again, 

Her blessing and her prayer. 
Her blessing on those kindly hands 

That through the darkest hours 
Wove garments for the trembling child, 

And crowned its brow with flowers. 

A prayer that still their faith and hope 

Will keep them weaving on, 
Till it can stand in broidered hems, 

Its robe of triumph done ; 
Till it can yield to faithful hearts 

The joy they thus have given, 
By tinging every form of earth 

With softer hues from heaven. 

! Mystic Art, in thee doth blend 

The earth-born and Divine. 
W T e know not whence, or what thy power, 

Yet worship at thy shrine. 
We clothe thee in a woman's form ; 

We crown thee with her name ; 
And though the ages knew not why, 

They called and knelt the same. 

61 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Till from Judea's vine-clad hills 

This heavenly answer stole, 
"From woman must be born to man 

The Saviour of the soul." 
Prophetic thought had thus enshrined 

The Mary of our race ; 
And moulded its divinest dreams 

In woman's form and face. 

Then tread we with unsandaled feet,— 

This time is holy now ; 
For see, the starry East grows bright, 

The herald angels bow. 
The Christmas anthem for our world 

Is trembling in the air. 
! may it steal in every soul, 

And find an answer there. 



THE GOLDEN WEDDING 
1834 — The Crown of Myrtle. 

I bear a message here to-night, 

From home, from hope, from youth, 
And I am laden with the breath 

Of tenderness and truth. 
My leaves and stems of fadeless green 

Are fresh with memories now, 
And I can feel them softly press 

Upon a youthful brow ; 

62 



MATILDA H. STUART 

While fifty years, their lights and shades, 

Have sailed a mystic way, 
And in their place Love's early hope 

Is blushing in the day — 
As bride and bridegroom's lips repeat 

Those "sweetly solemn words" 
That must forever stir or break 

The spirit's finest chords. 
And household forms press fondly near 

With blended smiles and tears, 
And breathe into that altar hour 

The garnered love of years. 
And o'er them all are viewless ones 

That bend their wings to bear 
Love's holy vow, its parting words, 

Its blessing and its prayer. 

1859— The Silver Crown. 

A silver hue is on my leaves, 

A tender touch of time; 
I do not sigh for early glow 

Nor for a brighter clime. 
I only know the green has changed, 

I feel its freshness gone ; 
And yet my message here to-night 

Hath sweetness in its tone. 
For youth can never bind our joys 

Within its fleeting hours, 
Nor can it rob our shaded time 

Of fragrance or of flowers. 

63 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

We lay one hope away to find 

Another in its room ; 
We love, we lose, and yet we keep 

Some brightness and some bloom. 
And so my silver leaves and stems 

Have language all their own ; 
They whisper to the "bride of years " 

That earliest dreams have flown ; 
And yet the bridegroom at her side 

Is nearer, dearer, now, 
Than when she wore the "myrtle crown" 

Upon her youthful brow. 
For both have seen young faces come 

To cheer their heart and hearth, 
And both have heard young voices call 

The sweetest names on earth ; 
And both together they have shared 

Their dear ones' hopes and fears, 
And felt love's arms draw closer still 

Through all the changeful years ; 
While o'er their homes were viewless ones, 

With bended wings, to bear 
A father's deep and tender thoughts, 

A mother's earnest prayer. 

1884— The Golden Crown. 

Another tinge is on the leaves 
Our bride and bridegroom wear ; 

The green is now within their hearts, 
The silver on their hair. 

64 



MATILDA H. STUART 

From sunset hours, from garnered grain, 

Their golden hue was caught, 
And every leaf and every stem 

Is stirred by holiest thought. 
For "fifty years" — though silent guests — 

Have still a magic power; 
They breathe on each, they breathe on all ; 

They sanctify the hour. 
We stand with bridegroom and with bride, 

And with this household band ; 
We feel the glow that o'er them falls, 

We touch each welcome hand ; 
And from our hearts and from our lips, 

Come words of love and cheer, 
To bless the past, and crown with hope 

This golden wedding year. 
And o'er us still are viewless ones 

Who bend their wings to bear 
The love of earth and love of heaven 

In blessing and in prayer. 



65 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 
ANSON G. CHESTER 

THE TAPESTRY WEAVERS 
I 

Let us take to our hearts a lesson — no lesson can 

braver be — 
From the ways of the tapestry weavers on the 

other side of the sea. 
Above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it 

with care, 
The while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are 

fastened there. 
They tell this curious thing besides of the patient 

plodding weaver : 
He works on the wrong side evermore, but works 

for the right side ever. 
It is only when the weaving stops, and the web 

is loosed and turned, 
That he sees his real handiwork, that his marvelous 

skill is learned. 
Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays 

him for all his cost ! 
No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done 

by the frost. 
Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and 

giveth him praise as well, 
And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no 

tongue but his own can tell. 

66 



ANSON G. CHESTER 

ii 

The years of man are the looms of God, let clown 

from the place of the sun, 
Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web 

is done. 
Weaving blindly, but weaving surely, each for 

himself his fate — 
We may not see how the right side looks, we can 

only weave and wait. 
But looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath 

need to fear, 
Only let him look clear into Heaven, the Perfect 

Pattern is there. 
If he keeps the face of The Saviour forever and 

always in sight 
His toil shall be sweeter than honev, his weaving; 

is sure to be right. 
And when the work is ended, and the web is turned 

and shown, 
He shall hear the voice of The Master, it shall say 

unto him, " Well done ! " 
And the white-winged angels of Heaven, to bear 

him thence, shall come down ; 
And God shall give him gold for his hire — not coin, 

but a glowing crown ! 



67 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

SOMETIME 

0, the glorious, golden Sometime of our dreams, 

and hopes, and prayers — 
What a rosy hue invests it, what a smile of peace 

it wears ! 
It is stored with balms and odors, it is full of song 

and shine, 
It shall gladden us like music, it shall comfort us 

like wine. 

0, the happy, happy Sometime that is coming 

with the years ! 
It shall ease our hearts of trouble, it shall keep our 

eyes from tears ; 
There will be no place for sorrow, there will be no 

time to sigh, 
In the shining, songful Sometime that is coming 

by and by. 

In the rosy, radiant Sometime there will be a won- 
drous rest — 

We shall lie and drink in gladness, as an infant 
sucks the breast ; 

No more the heart shall be disturbed by any woe 
or wile, 

The earth shall wear a heavenlier look, the heav- 
ens themselves shall smile. 

Hope will fruit upon its branches as the orange 

rounds and glows; 
There will be no strife and tumult, only concord 

and repose ; 

68 



ANSON G. CHESTER 

Every joy will be discarded that another may not 

share, 
And the ills of life will soften into something sweet 

and fair. 

In the gracious, golden Sometime we shall love 

and never tire — 
Keep the sweet emotion glowing, as the vestal 

kept the fire ; 
There will be a sturdier trusting and a sympathy 

sublime — 
The heart shall be in league with peace and peace 

in league with time. 

We shall lay aside our burdens, we shall be dis- 
robed of care, 

Cease our stifling low-land living, rise and breathe 
the mountain air ; 

We shall feel ourselves uplifted over meanness, 
spite and wrong — 

Firmly then will throb our pulses and our heart- 
beats will be strong. 

In the braver, better Sometime life will broaden 

and expand, 
Every impulse will be noble, every purpose will be 

grand, 
Speech shall put on loftier meanings, thought to 

higher plains ascend, 
And the action prove the motive and the motive 

show the end. 

69 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

We shall dream, but we shall labor; we shall 

labor, but shall sing,. 
As the skylark pipes its carols while it plies its 

patient wing ; 
We shall work with eager fingers, we shall run 

with willing feet, 
And the rest that crowns our striving will be 

something heavenly sweet. 

There will be a sense of freedom that will make 

our pulses leap, 
And a sweeter sense of safety, that will hush our 

hearts to sleep ; 
All our doubts will leave us ever, all our fears will 

be at rest — 
Life will then be less like being than like being 

always blest! 

0, my brother in the struggle, 0, my comrade in 
the strife ! 

Keep thy courage and thy patience, fill thy sta- 
tion, live thy life ; 

Twine thy hopes about the Sometime, trust it 
ever, hold it fast — 

Though it tarry, wait thou for it; it will surely 
come at last ! 



70 



ANSON G. CHESTER 

A LOVE SONG 

She who sleeps upon my heart 

Was the first to win it ; 
She who dreams upon my breast 

Ever reigns within it ; 
She who kisses oft my lips 

Wakes their warmest blessing ; 
She who rests within mine arms 

Feels their closest pressing. 

Other days than these shall come, 

Days that may be dreary ; 
Other hours shall greet us yet, 

Hours that may be weary ; 
Still that heart shall be my home, 

Still that breast my pillow ; 
Still those lips meet thine as oft 

Billow meeteth billow. 

Sleep, then, on my happy heart, 

Since thy love hath won it — 
Dream, then, on my loyal breast — 

None but thou hast done it ; 
And when age our bloom shall change 

With its wintry weather, 
May we in the self-same grave, 

Sleep and dream together. 



71 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

AT NIAGARA 

In the Maytime, at Niagara, 
As a Sabbath morning broke, 

Full of glory, peace and beauty, 
From his dreams the sleeper woke. 

All was quiet, save the thunder 
That forever there prevails — 

That, throughout the gathering ages, 
Never pauses, never fails. 

But the thunder of the torrent 

Of a sudden died away, 
Just as if a spell of silence 

On the rampant waters lay. 

For a robin, at the casement, trilled 
Its carols sweet and strong. 

And he heard the roar no longer — 
It was vanquished by the song ! 

On thine ear the roar and tumult 
Of the noisy world must fall, 

But a little song of love and trust 
Will overcome it all. 



LIGHTS GONE OUT 

High on a bold and overhanging cliff 

That mocks the sea and frowns upon the 
sands — 
A ghostly presence in a lonely place — 
The crumbling lighthouse stands. 
72 



ANSON G. CHESTEK 

No hand swings back the battered oaken door, 
No footfall sounds upon the winding stair, 

But for the swallows, not a sign of life 
Invests it anywdiere. 

And, as the darkness falls, its lamp no more 

Vies with the stars to cheer the gloomy main, 
And guide the eager vessel as she hastes 
Back to the port again. 

So from a life that once was wondrous bright — 
Like the Italian heavens, unceasing fair — 

The light that blessed it has forever fled 
And all is darkness there. 

The ray less beacon may be trimmed again 
And burn as brightly as it burned before; 

But who shall ever to the dark, dark life 
The olden flame restore. 



HYMN 

For the Dedication of New Forest Lawn, September 26, 1866. 

These quiet acres, with this solemn grove, 

These slopes, where many a blossom lifts its 
head, 
These nooks, where pipes the thrush and moans 
the dove — 

We give them to the dead. 
73 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Here shall respose the matron and the maid, 

The infant and the father, side by side, 
And here in holy faith and trust be laid 
The grandsire and the bride. 

Here shall the heart its choicest incense burn, 
And here the fairest, rarest flowers shall 
bloom — 
For Memory loves to twine the funeral urn 
And beautify the tomb. 

0, when in such a heavenly spot as this 

Our wearied bodies, undisturbed, may lie, ' 
Death holds for us the jeweled cup of bliss 
And it is good to die. 

In thy Great Name this place we consecrate, 
God triune— the Father, Spirit, Word; 
Sweet be their sleep who here shall calmly wait 
The summons of the Lord ! 



KED JACKET 

It is half an age since he passed away, 
The Chief we honored that autumn day. 

The day was bright, but what of the deed ? 
Ah ! that depends on the make of the creed. 

It is well that his bones find rest at last, 
But what of the wrongs of the silent past ? 

74 



ANSON G. CHESTER 

To judge from the Law brought down from the 

Mount, 
It will need much more to square the account. 

He spoke for his people, great and small, 
But our ears were closed to his plaintive call. 

He sued for justice, he sought for right, 
But died, as he lived, without the sight. 

We gave no heed to his living tones, 
But what of that? — we buried his bones ! 

He pled for his own and we heard him not, 
But see the monument he has got! 

The story returns from the ages gone : 

He asked for bread, they gave him a stone ! 

Buffalo, October 9, 1884. 



THE FIELD DAISY 

I reached my hand for a fallen star, 

But only a daisy found it — 
A little tawny and fretted disk 

With a snowy halo round it. 

It seemed to have dropped from the spangled sky- 

A heavenly thing made lowly ; 
I gazed and mused till the simple flower 

Grew strangely sweet and holy. 

75 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

If things so humble and things so high 
May blend in the thoughts of the spirit, 

Then angel graces may live and thrive 
In the midst of man's demerit. 

Ah, we are the fallen stars of God ! 

But, firm in the way of duty, 
Our lives will carry a heavenly glow 

And the bloom of a heavenly beauty. 



WELCOME, TWENTY-FIRST ! 

From the fields of strife and slaughter, 
Fields where blood was poured like water, 
Where, in swaths, the rebel foemen 
Fell before our northern yeomen ; 
From a war most just and holy, 
Though its gold is coined but slowly — 
Welcome, Twenty-first ! 

With your frames all bruised and battered; 
With your ranks all thin and shattered ; 
With your torn and shot-scarred banner, 
Witness to your dauntless manner ; 
With a name and fame and glory 
Which shall live in song and story — 
Welcome, Twenty-first. 

To the friends who smile to meet you ; 
To the homes which wait to greet you ; 
76 



ANSON G. CHESTER 

To the arms which long to press you ; 
To the hearts which love and bless you ; 
To your fathers, children, brothers, 
To your sweethearts, wives and mothers — 
Welcome, Twenty-first. 

Tears are moistening many faces 
As they see the vacant places 
In the worn and wasted column — 
Ah ! but war is sad and solemn ! 
Yet why weep for those who perished 
In the cause they loved and cherished? 
They who choose the stoutest burdens 
Win the best and proudest guerdons. 

From a war most just and holy, 
Though its gold is coined but slowly ; 
With your frames all bruised and battered, 
And your ranks all thin and shattered ; 
To the friends who smile to meet you, 
And the homes which wait to greet you — 
Welcome, Twenty-first. 



77 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



J. HARRISON MILLS 

THE FLAG OF THE TWENTY-FIKST 

An Extract. 

But oli ! you can't know then, how dear a thing a 

tattered color can be 
To men who have suffered, and fought, and bled, 

as under this one, did we. 



Perhaps you'll remember, four years gone by, 

In that wonderful spring-time of Sixty-one, 
While the country was ringing with the cry 

That answered old Sumter's larum gun, 
That — wait; I'll be precise to a day, 

'Twas, I think, just about the fourth of May, 
And Sumter fell on the thirteenth day 

Of the month before — yes; and that was the 
way 
We came to be standing, that day at noon, — 

A raw, unarmed and undisciplined crew, 
But flushed with high purpose, — upon the Square 

Down there, in front of the Central School. 

'Twas a silken wonder; all blue and gold 

Where a bit of starry sky was set, 
And a broken rainbow's red and white 

Marked the promise ne'er broken yet. 
And proudly upon its topmost height, 

78 



J. HARRISON MILLS 

Poised above rainbow and sky and star,. 
With his wings and head outstretched for flight, 

As to meet the coming foe, afar, 
Was a golden image of Freedom's bird, 

The bird with the flaming eye, 
Whose wing o'ershadows the battle-field 

And whose song is a battle-cry. 

White as a fairy's, the hands that made 
That flag ; while, perchance, there were beauti- 
ful eyes 
Drooping, to hide tears that wouldn't be stayed. 

Rough hands, and brown, received the prize, 
And proudly we bore it, that parting day, 

A gift from the girls of the Central School 
To the boys who were marching away 
On that beautiful day in May. 

Two years after that, — to a day, almost, 

Buffalo welcomed back her boys — 
Two or three handfuls of the host 

That had marched so proudly away 

On that beautiful day in May. 

Well, up Main Street, 'twas a beautiful sight 

To us hardened old fellows to see, 
Look up or look down, to the left or the right, 

Every place jammed as tight as could be 
With welcoming faces ; and was there a place 
That would not admit of another small face, 

There a hand waved in welcoming glee. 

79 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And if von should ask me (the truth to say) 
What was the saddest, to me, that day, 

Of all the sights that might have been seen 
In the little column that marched up Main, 

Whether the thin and wasted ranks, 
Or the two platoons of crippled men, 

Or the many faces you couldn't see 
And knew you would never see again, 

Or the hardened and weary, yet hopeful look, 
In others that went away, } r oung and fair, 

As though they were trying, but couldn't forget 
The awful touch of the battle air, 

Or the weeping ones, who looked in vain 
And knew it, yet looked, and looked again 
Along the lines where they might not see 

Some dear one who marched away 

On that beautiful day in May 
Why friend — this is what I should say : — 

These were all sad enough sights to see, 

But the saddest— yet proudest of all — to me, 

Was that bit of discolored red and blue, 

And grayish white, with a dingy hue, 

Blurred too with spots of a darker stain — 

Tell-tale spots — where its folds have lain 

Sometimes, for a moment, where mingled blood 

Of friends and of foemen fed the sod ; 

With its stars and its tassels of tarnished gold, 

And ragged rendings in every fold, 

And its tattered fringes, about half way 

Where its edge was once — on that tearful day, 

80 



J. HARRISON MILLS 

That day two years ago in May, 

When we all so proudly marched away — 

Why, that was the saddest sight, I say. 

And when we halted, upon the Square 

In front of the Arsenal, and there 

Gave it back to the hands that on that day 

Placed it in ours when we marched away ; 

Why, that remnant of silk, so ragged and old, 

Was dearer to us than moneys of gold, 

And a kingdom couldn't have bought a fold, 

Nay ! a tatter ! a thread ! had been wealth untold. 

Yes, sooner than sever one sacred shred, 

Not a man in that line but had willingly bled. 

For its staff never felt a foeman's hand ; 

And many a grave we know 
Scattered across that sunny land 

Where its bearers sleep so low,— 

Since, a blood-red crest on a billow's breast, 
Where the tide of death ran strong. 

It swept the cloud, with a bearing proud, 
Keeping time to the battle song — 

And their fitting knell was the battle bell 
That boomed with a tongue of flame 

And the Minie hail, with its fearful wail 
Scattering its track with slain. 

But on ! still on ! 'till the goal was won, 

Bending to rise again, 
While swiftly and true our bullets flew, 

That eagle o'er-swept the plain — 

81 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Till one dark day when the tide set back, 

Leaving ten thousand slain. 
All at once he was gone, and by sunset or dawn 

He never came back again. 

And whether he still went sailing on, 

Scorning the coming foe, 
Or whether he fell ; I cannot tell, 

But he never came back, I know ; 

And his image yet, is firmly set 

In hearts that have turned to clay. 
And there it shall be till the reveille 
Arouses the sleepers, by river and sea, 
On that last great muster day. 



BOOTHS 

1866. 

Smiling, — wiling, — brain beguiling, — 

Pleading sweetly, — reconciling 
All our protests to complying, while our pockets 
lighter grow ; 

Beaming, — gleaming, — never seeming 

Half so fair as when they're scheming, 
Half unfairly, to despoil us of a double X or so ; 

Oh! most blissful 'tis, of blisses, 

Thus, surrounded by the misses, 
Sweetly to disgorge the "pieces," as from hand to 
hand you go ! 

82 



J. HARRISON MILLS 

" Buy a doll, sir? — Have a shawl, sir? 
Please do walk up to our stall, sir." 
And so "lamb-like" to the slaughter, gamble- 

ing you're sure to go, 
Winning smiles worth more than "greenbacks" 
as you ramble through the show. 

Ah ! but past me, grim and ghastly, 
Glide the shades that once compassed me, 
When the fate of Battle cast me 'mid the dying 
and the dead ; 
Where the gleanings all were lying, 
Husk and kernel, dead and dying 
In the wards of pain and sighing, sinking heart 
and drooping head ; 
In the line of cots, unbroken, 
Lying there a sign and token 
Of the horrors never spoken, of the field with car- 
nage red ; 
Lips that moan in every tone in which racked 

Nature's prayers are said, 
Eyes that, seeming fixed, are dreaming some sad 
vision of the dead. 
"Buy? of course! who wouldn't buy, Miss; 
Don't each dollar ease a sigh, Miss; 
Lighten up some grateful eye, Miss, where your 

bounty shall be shed ? 
And I know that His own blessing rests upon 

you, Who once said 
To a needy, suffering mortal, 'Friend, arise: take 
up thy bed.'" 

83 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



JEROME B. STILLSON 

AGNES 

When the bleak autumnal weather, moaning over 
moor and heather, 

Reveled with the giant shadows where the barren 
mountains loom, 

When the winds were weirdly raving, and the 
forests grimly waving 

All the night's dim terrors braving, forth 1 wan- 
dered, in the gloom, — 

Wandered through the whispering darkness of the 
dismal midnight gloom, 

To a mossed and lonesome tomb. 

All around was dead and lonely; — wind, and 

cloud and darkness only ; 
And the coldly -slumbering landscape wore a chill 

and ghostly air ; 
And a mournful thrill came o'er me, gazing on the 

mound before me, 
And a voice seemed to implore me— "Linger not 

in sadness there, — 
Linger not in hopeless longing ; naught but ashes 

slumber there, 

Neither beautiful nor fair. 

"Gone the dark eye's heavenly luster, gone the 

light that used to cluster 
Round her brows' transparent whiteness in a 

spiritual flood; — 

84 



.1 EROME B. STILLSON 

Never more beside the river, where the glancing 

moonbeams shiver, 
Shall her sweet lips softly quiver, murmuring of 

Faith and God. 
Thou art crouching in the midnight by a damp 

and sunken clod, — 

By a nameless burial sod ! " 

Then the voice my spirit haunting with its melan- 
choly chanting, 

Sounded all the depths of memory, rent the shroud 
of buried years, 

While I stood in silence weeping, o'er the dead my 
vigil keeping, 

O'er a loved one softly sleeping, undisturbed by 
wrongs or fears ; 

And a flood of disappointment, and a cloud of 
bitter fears 

Fell upon the mound in tears. 

0, that memory undying! 0, that voice, that, 

sadly sighing, 
Surged its tale of desolation through my bosom 

like a wave! 
Still its gloom my heart o'ershadows, and I look 

out on the meadows, 
On the cold and dreary meadows which the snows 

of winter pave, 
And, so gazing, 0, lost Agnes, on thy white and 

distant grave, 

Slumber there is all I crave. 

85 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



CHARLES D. MARSHALL 

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE LIEUTENANT CHARLES S. 
FARNHAM 

Not in the lowering smoke, 

Robing the battlefield, 
Not by a saber stroke 
Were life's strong fetters broke 

And Heaven's last seal unsealed. 

No glory-shrouded death, 

Bright with Fame's magic smiles 

And crowned with Honor's wreath 

On Victory's bloody heath, 

His pain-wrapped thought beguiles. 

But skeletoned and grim, 

Death came without disguise, 

The far-off battle-hymn 

Lighting the eye grown dim — 
Floated in distant skies. 

And on a bed of pain, 

Stricken, yet not cast down, 

He struggled — but in vain. 

Our sorrow is his gain, 

Our loss gives him a crown. 



86 



CHARLES D. MARSHALL 

THE PARTING 

Let not another's rude kiss stain 

The lips that I caress ; 
Let not another's touch profane 

The hand I fondly press. 

But let this last kiss linger long, 
And keep this white hand free, 

And like a joyous morning song 
My sunny life shall be. 

If clouded moments intervene 
Ere we again shall kiss, 

The clouds will catch a silvery sheen 
From this remembered bliss. 

Then let no other rude touch stain 

Those lips that I caress, 
And let no other clasp profane 

This hand I fondly press. 



THE POETS THOUGHT 

The poet roams through flower-strewn meads 

And plucks a bright bouquet ; 
He binds it with a thread of thought ; 

It lives its little day. 

But soon the chilling breath of Time 

Shall strew the leaves around ; 
The cold world with its iron heel 

Will crush them in the ground. 

87 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

But let this truth his sad heart cheer 

And soothe in hour of need ; 
Beneath the calyx of each flower 

Lies hidden precious seed, 

Which borne upon the changing wind, 

Wafted by every air, 
Will find rich soil in some fond heart, 

Take root, and blossom there. 



KIND WORDS 

Sparkling, through the foam-heads 

That tip the ocean waves, 
Chasing the rolling billows, 

Searching their deep, dark graves, 

Down come the silvery moonbeams, 

Silently into the night, 
Shedding afar, through a dreaming world, 

A wavy, tremulous light. 

So, dropping from some loved lips, 
Soothing some wave-worn soul — 

Gilding the troubled waters 
That ceaselessly over it roll — 

Sweetly fall words of kindness, 
To those who, mourning, grope. 

Lighting eyes, filled to blindness, 
With rays of quiet hope. 
88 



CHARLES 1). MARSHALL 

STORM CLOUDS 

Quietly, quietly 
Rolls the deep sea, 
Under the moonlight, 
Under the starlight. 

Lovingly, lovingly. 

Grandly, oh! grandly 
Rolls the blue sea ; 
Rising in billows, 
Heaving to mountains, 
Tipped by the moonlight, 
Decked by the starlight; 
Grandly, so grandly 

Rolls the blue sea. 

Solemnly, solemnly 
Rolls the dark sea ; 
Dimmed is the moonlight, 
Dimmed is the starlight, 
Shining through storm-clouds, 

Solemnly. 

Fearfully, fearfully 
Leaps the wild sea; 
Foaming— its billows 
Breaking in foam-caps, 
Chasing each other, 
Dashing together, 
Rolling and tumbling 

Fearfully ! 

89 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Gently, oh! gently 
Rolls the green sea, 
Bearing up corpses, 
Floating so calmly 
Under the moonlight, 
Under the starlight, 

Gently, so gently ! 

Quietly, quietly 
Rolls the deep sea ; 
Sunken the corpses, 
Vanished the moonlight, 
Paling the starlight, 
While the bright sunlight 
Steals o'er the ocean 

Quietly. 



glen mis 

Where the seven-hued arch spans the beautiful 
river, 
By spray-shadowed phantoms upraised ; 
Where the waves on the brink of the precipice 
quiver, 
Shrink backward, affrighted, amazed, — 
Delay for a moment the mad plunge before them, 
Then leap into song 'neath the bow bending 
o'er them ; — 

90 



CHARLES I). MARSHALL 

There, afar from the clamor of town, and the 
shadow 
That rests under smoke-tainted skies, 
In the lap of green hills, mapped with forest and 
meadow, 
Glen Iris, the beautiful, lies; 
A lawn, a cool wood, a clear lake and a fountain, 
The wild stream before, and behind, the low 
mountain. 

There earliest spring gives her full breast to nature, 
And buds break in bountiful bloom ; 

The trees on the hills crown with sweets their 
full stature 
And load the moist air with perfume; 

Like a maiden new risen to meet her adorning, 

The valley is fresh with the incense of morning. 

There music is born of the wind-shaken willows 
That fringe the lake's margin around ; 

It floats from the Genesee's miniature billows, 
And rises, low-voiced, from the ground ; 

In the full tide of life all the fair glen rejoices, 

And valley and stream blend their rhythmical 
voices. 

Oh, the charm of the spell of that beautiful valley ! 

Oh, siren-like song of its Fall ! 
We would fain in life's voyage there linger and 
dally 

Amid the bright scenes of its thrall ; 

91 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

'Mid carols of birds and rare odors of flowers, 
Days lapse into moments and moments hold hours. 

When the days shall be told and the moments all 
reckoned 
That life has held bitter or sweet ; 
When the timorous soul to the unknown is 
beckoned, 
And faith and reality meet, 
E'en death w T ould be sweet by the murmuring river, 
And rest 'neath the sign of the Promise, forever. 



92 



AMANDA T. JONES 



AMANDA T. JONES 

COMING HOME 

A six-years' child, I climbed the gate 
All round the world to see ; 

"Oh, why does mother stay so late? 
Where can she, can she be?" 

I saw the pond as gray as lead, 

Blue iris near the brink, 
The rough-railed pasture, sorrel-red, 

The meadow, clover-pink. 

I saw the yellow sands where lay 

My periwinkles brown. 
Silver Cayuga wind away, 

And purple mists fall down. 

I saw the flume, the waterfall, 
The white and flying foam, 

Yet missed the dearest sight of all. — 
My mother coming home. 

It surely, surely would be night ; 

The lady four-o'clocks 
Unwound their silky ribbons bright, 

Shook out their party frocks. 

The miller-moth went high and higher, 
Went round and round about, 

The sun's broad face was red as fire, 
He was so tired out. 

93 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

So down he sank behind the brush,— 

I thought lie dropped a spark, 
Right after such a. crimson blush 

Ran kindling through the dark. 

A spark, a blush, a smoky blaze 

Began to creep and turn, 
To catch and cling, — a, hundred ways 

To burn and burn and burn ! 

" Oh, is it truly fire? " I thought, 

"Or people of the air, 
With mantles from the sunset caught 

And fiery floating hair? " 

My heart beat hard with fancy fright ; 

"Should mother come that way, 
And should they snatch her, hold her tight, 

What would we, would we say? 

"Their shiny cloaks, how far they blow ! 

They'll wind her round and round. 
She'll never think, she'll never know, 

She'll never hear a sound, 

"Not even should we call and call, 

They'll take her up on high ; 
They'll hide her, wrap her, burn her all 

'Way through the burning sky." 

Out gushed my tears — the silly child! 

Such bitter grief I had. 
First thing I knew, there mother smiled ! 

And all my world was glad. 

94 



AMANDA T. JONES 

0, mother, mother! thought is swift, 
But who would count the hours 

Since lightly blew that snowy drift, 
Right in among the flowers ? 

Ah, not so long ago, not long, 

You passed the lowly gate, 
I know your love is sweet and strong, 

Why will y ou stay so late ? 

What use to me the gray and blue, 

The rosy and the white, 
The silks of summer, fair of hue ? — 

It surely will be night. 

You, you I w r ant, I call your name, 

All round the world I see, 
So whirled away in holy flame — 

Where can you, can you be? 

Hush, foolish one, heart-struck with fear ! 

The sorry thought let go. 
You look so far, she comes so near, 

Soft-smiling, still and slow. 

Not rushing fires that skyward fling, 
Though wide they be and wild, 

Not Life, nor Death, nor any thing, 
Will keep her from her child. 

Turn round and face the heavenly sight ; 
Spring to the loving breast ; 
Oh, sweet surprise ! Oh, dear delight ! 
All kissed away to rest ! 

95 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER 

Awake, little daughter, awake ! 

The sad moon is weaving her shroud ; 

The pale, drooping lily-bells quake ; 
The river is sobbing aloud. 

I want your sweet face in my sight, 

While I open my room to the night ; 
The torn clouds are flying, the lupine is sighing, 

The whip-poor-will wails in affright. 

There's a shadow just marked on the floor — 

Now soaring and breaking its bond ; 
'Tis the woodbine, perhaps, by the door, 
Or the blooming acacia beyond. 
Oh, pitiful weakness of grief! 
Oh, trouble, of troubles the chief ! 
When shades can assail us, and terrors impale us, 
At sight of a quivering leaf. 

I weep, little daughter, I weep ; 

But chide me not, love, for I heard. 
Three times in the depth of my sleep. 
The clang of a terrible word. 

"Your Harry is dying," it cried ; 
"Is dying" and "dying," it sighed; 
As bells that, in tolling, set echoes to rolling, 
Till fainting sound ebbs like the tide. 

Then the walls of my room fell away ; 

My eye pierced the distance afar, 
Where, by the plowed field of the fray. 

The camp-fire shone out like a star. 

96 



AMANDA T. JONES 

And southward, unhindered, I fled, 
By the instinct of motherhood led ; 
The night-wind was blowing, the red blood was 
flowing, 

And Harry was dying — was dead ! 

I dreamed, little daughter, I dreamed — 

Look ! the window is lit by a face. 
It is not? Well, how life-like it seemed ! 
Go, draw down the curtains of lace. 
It may be 'twas only a flower ; 
For fancy has wonderful power. 
The loud wind is whirring — hark! something is 
stirring — 

'Tis midnight — the clock knells the hour. 

The horseman had ridden all night; 

His garments were spotted with gore ; 
His foot crushed the lily-bells white — 
He entered the vine-covered door. 
" Your Harry is dying," he said : 
The mother just lifted her head, 
And answered un weeping, like one who is sleeping, 
"Not dying, good soldier, but dead! " 

AT FIRST 

If I should fall asleep one day — 

All over-worn, 
And should my spirit from the clay 
Go dreaming out the Heavenward way 

Or thence be softly borne, 

97 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

I pray you, angels, do not first 

Assail mine ear 
With that blest anthem oft rehearsed : 
"Behold, the bonds of Death are burst ! " — 

Lest I should faint with fear. 

But let some happy bird at hand 

The silence break ! 
So shall I dimly understand 
That dawn has touched a blossoming land 

And sigh myself awake ! 

From that deep rest emerging so, 

To lift the head 
And see the bath-flower's bell of snow, 
The pink arbutus and the low 

Spring-beauty, streaked with red, 

Will all suffice ! No otherwhere 

Impelled to roam 
Till some blithe wanderer, passing fair, 
Will smiling pause — of me aware — 
And murm nr : " Welcome Home ! " 

So sweetly greeted, I shall rise 

To kiss her cheek ; 
Then lightly soar, in lovely guise, 
As one familiar with the skies 

Who finds and need not seek. 



* • ' 98 



AMANDA T. JONES 

FOOD SEEKERS 



A wide-winged butterfly 
Upon the white flowers of a bitter weed 
Settled to satisfy his noon-day need. 

Through sunshine far and high 
His kindred wavered, but he took no heed ; 
Pretty it was to watch his dainty greed. 

ii. 

A wondrous beetle came — 
All emerald-green, save that upon his back 
There blazed a mimic sun ; and in his track 

Lured by the dazzling flame, 
A lace-wing fluttered — purple, gold and black. 
Of pleasure for them all there was no lack. 

in. 

Down dropped a bird that flies 
Near to the clouds, yet perches for his seed, 
And sings and sings God's little choir to lead ! 

I lifted up my eyes ; 
"Dear Lord, Thy fragile creatures richly feed ; 
Content me, also, with Thy bitter weed ! " 

From The Youth's Companion. 

99 I. of 6. 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

AT GLEN IRIS 

The moon came up that eve, full-orbed and fair — 
That sovereign Cleopatra, — ruling Night, 
And dropping ever in his loving sight 

Her threaded pearls adown the wine-like air: 
Half undissolved they sank through shadows 

gray. 
Embroidered Mo-no-sha-sha's robe of spray, 
And caught in Deh-ga-ya-soh's silver snare. 

All night we heard the river-cataracts pour: 

Their ceaseless timbrels smote the ear of sleep ; 
Till all our dreams, like waves that landward 
sweep, 

Were wild and voluble with naiad-lore : 

And we were reft of rest, and seemed to be 
Kuhleborns and Undines, dripping with the sea, 

Or knights and ladies drenched upon the shore. 

Surely the water-witches tricked us well ! 

When the carved cuckoo made the morning 

hours 
Finish their rounds with song, 'mid falling 
showers, 
And rain- weighed rose-vines; scarcely might we 
tell 
Whether we had not lost our souls in dreams 
Of that past night, and were but sprites of 
streams, 
Oreads of hills, or elfs of knoll and dell. 

100 



AMANDA T. JONES 

Upon the grass-fringed lakelet, fountain-fed 

With cooling rills, just drained from hillside 
Avells, 

Where, to the tinkle of sweet water-bells, 
Aerial jets were waltzing overhead, 

By sirens lured, how daintily we rode! 

Till, drawn too near their crystalline abode, 
What showers the fickle creatures o'er us shed? 



SHIPWRECKED 

We two waited on the deck — 

All around us rolled the sea ; 
Helpless, on our reeling wreck, 

Silent, wan, and worn were we. 
Where the little boat went down, 

Where the sun had plunged from sight, 
Hope and light alike did drown — 
O'er us, dark as Fate, w T as night. 
Face to face we stood alone, 

Dreary, still, and sad were we ; 
Smitten by that wild cyclone, 
All around us beat the sea, 
. Rose the sea, rushed the sea, 
Roared the wrathful sea ! 

Cloudy shapes like hooded ghouls, 
Flitted past our shuddering prow ; 

Death was reaching for our souls, 
Chill his breath upon the brow : 

101 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Then, oh then were we aware, 

Through all war, below, above, 
Of a face sublimely fair — 

Was it Death unveiled, or Love ? 
Heart to heart we stood alone, 
Smiling and serene were we ; 
Tortured by that wild cyclone, 
All around us strove the sea, 
Wailed the sea, mourned the sea, 
Sobbed the toiling sea. 

While we watched, a seething tide 
O'er our sinking vessel crossed ; 
Out among the waters wide, 

Smiling still, we two were tossed ; 
Tossed and drifted, overcome 

In a crowd of surges dread, 
Bruised and beaten, blind and dumb, 
So we sank among the dead. 
my love, and mine alone, 

Sweet it was to die with thee ! 
Far beneath that dread cyclone, 
All around us rocked the sea, 
Crept the sea., sank the sea, 
Slept the silent sea. 

Through our slumber sweet and deep, 
Stole the growing light of dawn ; 

Heart and brain its warmth did steep, 
Out of death our souls were drawn. 

102 



AMANDA T. JONES 

So we breathed, awoke, arose, — 
Heart to heart and lip to lip ; 
Where Love's golden ocean flows, 
Ever sails our snowy ship. 

Never sun so softly shone ; 

Fair, in saintly robes are we ! 
O'er us shrieks no mad cyclone, 
All around us sings the sea, 
Gleams the sea, glides the sea, 
Laughs the lovely sea ! 



FATHER 

I plucked the bird-foot violets, 

Long-lobed, white-hearted, azure-pale, 
And odorous as heliotropes. 
I said : "The sun in heaven begets 
No fairer flower to scent the gale 
That fans the angel-haunted slopes : 
I would beneath his eyes they grew 
Who loved me when my years were few." 

Oh, he was gentle, generous, true! 

He loved his home, he loved his church, 
He pitied sinners everywhere ; 
The virtues of his friends he knew, 

But was not used their faults to search, 
Nor found them — if they were not there. 
Whoever else is sick or sad, 
I have no doubt his life is glad. 

103 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Ah me ! if but the flowers he had ! 

That leaning down from where he sings 
(Up-floated from the Heavenly plains 
With that ineffable glory clad), 
He might behold the pallid things 
All newly washed in silver rains, 
And pleased, reminded, murmur low: 
" The earth bore violets long ago ; 

" My little daughter watched them grow : 
She traveled all the fields and dales, 
Crept under zig-zag fences rude, 
Waded through shallow waters slow, 
Went shoulder-deep in meadow-swales, 
And, charmed with woodland solitude 
Sank down at last, where weighed with dew, 
The pretty, pretty blossoms grew. 

"But these are holier of hue, 

Are lovelier far, more sweet of breath, 
More altogether of the skies. 
And can it be that world I knew 

Is reeling out from darks of Death ? 
And would my children all arise 
And welcome me, if I should bend 
My flight their way and so descend, — 

"Hand holding hand as friend with friend ? " 
And I believe that he would yield 
His crown, and in the guise that hid 
His soul before the journey's end, 

104 



AMANDA T. JONES 

Would in the doorway stand revealed ; 
Would catch my hands as once he did ; 
Would lift me, kiss me, hold me high, 
And bid me gaze into the sky. 

Then I should see the stars go by ; 
And I should see — nor die to see — 
Far-off, far-off, and very faint, 
As through a glass, not eye to eye, 

Those who were bond but now are free, 
The well-beloved of that blest saint : 
The two fair babes whose haste to go 
Half broke his heart, he loved them so ; 

The pure young lad who yearned to know 
Some far, imagined, perfect land, 
Some rose-illumined Sharon's vale, 
And hasted on through wind and snow 
With leaping foot and reaching hand 
As Galahad to find the Grail, — 
Till passed some burning charioteer 
And snatched him ; white with holy fear; 

And that proud patriot-boy, all dear 
To God and us ; no tongue can tell 

How deep the hurt when he went down ; 
And, over all, those gray eyes, clear 
As some unfathomable Avell 

Wherein all doubts and sorrows drown — 
The mother sighing: ''Long I wait; 
These are but four, and those are eight." 

105 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Then I should see the light abate ; 
Should lose and lose the vision fair ; 
Should sink and sink, more closely pressed, — 
Upon my lids a flowery weight, 
A scent of violets in the air ; 

Till he would lift me from his breast 
All swooning — love me, lay me down, 
Pass out, and so resume his crown. 



106 



ELIZABETH KELLAR 
ELIZABETH KELLAR 

OUR NESTS 

In yon soft nest, 

Bird babies rest ; 
The calm wind rocks the maple tree ; 

While to my breast, 

So tightly pressed, 
I rock my baby on my knee. 

The mother-bird 

Knows not a word 
Of what I tell my birdy boy. 

Fond one, my song, 

So quaint and long, 
Is of that nest, thy pride, thy joy. 

Glad mothers we, 
You, bird, andnie — 
And truly each by Heaven blessed ; 
Thy wing, my arm, 
Alike from harm, 
So softly shields each tender nest. 

With thee, I raise 

My song of praise ; 
I scorn not, bird, to join thy prayer, 

For well I know, 

Each strain so low, 
Must thank God for his love and care. 
107 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Then softly sway, 

At close of day, 
In thy arms, oh, maple-tree, 

That precious nest, — 

While to my breast 
My fond arms fold my bird to me. 



108 



JAMES KENDALL HOSMEIi 



JAMES KENDALL HOSMER 



THE LIGHT THAT LIGHTETH EVERY MAN 

Written for the 25th Anniversary of Dr. George W. Hosmer's Pastorate 
in the First Unitarian Church, Buffalo, 18(51. 



In Israel's temple Aaron old 

In glowing mitre sought the shrine ; 
His mantle's broad empurpled fold 

With cunning work embroidered fine. 
In vest of fine twined-linen dressed, 

Besprent with golden clasp and gem ! 
And censer swung and fumed ; and rung 

The bells of gold that fringed the hem. 

But chief, above his heart was bound 

The jewelled breast-plate, folded square ; 
And oft, or so the tale, 'twas found 

The Elohim descended there. 
For beryl bright and crysolite 

And sardius flushed like dawn, oft poured 
With fiery ray ; and Aaron aye 

Bore judgment thus before the Lord. 

Thee, Man of now, no hand hath graced 
With Aaron's gorget, God-controlled; 

But on thy heart is judgment placed 
Not less than on the priest of old. 

109 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

From emerald's lip and sapphire's deep, 
No tinted gush of God-sent might ! 

But to thy soul for aye doth roll 
Such holv force and fall of light! 

To thine — to all ! the bigot's hedge, 

When God would have unbroken meads, 
Hath parcelled off. With thorough edge 

We cut the pale that parts the creeds. 
Each pagan scheme, sweet Truth, we deem 

Some lisp of thee ; not folly's lie, — 
A plot o'erlaid too thick with shade 

Whose healthful crop came scant thereby. 

Wild sybils 'mid your grottoes dim 

In panting rhapsody who speak ! 
Ye Cymric bards who pour the hymn 

Before your lichened altars bleak ! 
And Gueber saint whose soul doth faint 

While Sirius bands his troop of stars ; 
And priest who turns from brimming urns 

Libation pure to Jove or Mars — 

God's crude and green-hewn torches ye ! 

That foul the flame with drift of smoke,— 
That show his ray but glimmeringly ; 

Yet nought avails the light to choke. 
Your frenzied chants and mystic dance, 

And saga screamed through wintry wood 
By Odin's child — all worship wild! 

All broken homage of the good, 
no 



JAMES KENDALL HOSME;R 

0, stream, for whose so plenteous tide 

Old Aaron's gems poor conduits are, 
Most sweet, indeed, thy bounty wide, 

Sent full through zones and cycles far, 
Doth Druid bless, and Pythoness, 

And prophet hoar, and all, — but thou 
The holier rush, and mellower gush 

Hast in thy heart, 0, Man of now ! 



ill 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



J. V. W. ANNAN 

IN CLOVER 

As through a lane I chanced to pass, 
I saw a primrose in the grass 
Divide a laddie and a lass, — 
A primrose daunts no lover. 

Her blushes I could plainly see ; 
The stain of grass upon his knee 
The story clearly told to me 
That he had been in clover. 

Birds, too, were singing in the air 
Betrothal songs so sweet and rare, 
The lover listened as if prayer 
Were taking wings above her. 

Her head was drooped demurely down, 
1 think the daisies round her gown 
Quite trembled 'neath the sudden frown 
That sought her joy to cover. 

If lanes are narrow, who can miss 
The air's reporting of a kiss, 
Or shun the circle of the bliss, 

Which flowers and birds discover? 



112 



GRANT P. ROBINSON 



GRANT P. ROBINSON 

"i FIGHTS MIT SIGEL" 

When I met him at first he was trudging along, 

His knapsack with chickens was swelling ; 
He'd "Blenkered" these dainties and thought it 
no wrong, 

From some secessionist's dwelling. 
' ' What regiment's yours ? and under whose flag 

Do you fight?" said I, touching his shoulder ; 
Turning slowly around he smilingly said, 

For the thought made him stronger and bolder : 
"I fights mitSigel! ,, 

The next time I saw him his knapsack was gone, 

His cap and canteen were missing ; 
Shell, shrapnel, and grape, and the swift rifle ball 

Around him and o'er him were hissing. 
' ' H ow are you, my friend, and where have you been ? 

In whose corps and brigade are you fighting?" 
He said, as a shell from the enemy's gun 

Sent his arm and his musket a "kiting" : 
" I fights mitSigel!" 

And once more I saw him and knelt by his side ; 

His life-blood was rapidly flowing; 
I whispered of home, wife, children, and friends, 

The bright land to which he was going ; 

113 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

" And have you no word for the dear one at home; 

The ' wee one,' the father, or mother? " 
"Yes! yes!" said he, "tell them, Oh! tell them 
I fights— " 
Poor fellow ! he thought of no other — 
"I fights mitSigel!" 

We scraped out a grave, and he dreamlessly sleeps 

On the banks of the Shenandoah River ; 
His home or his kindred are alike unknown, 

His reward in the hands of the Giver. 
We placed a rough board at the head of his grave, 

"And we left him alone in his glory," 
Rut on it was marked, ere we turned from the spot, 

The little we knew of his story — 

" I fights mitSisel!" 



114 



REV. J. HAZARD HARTZELL 



REV. J. HAZARD HARTZELL 

TIIAXATOS 

He plucks the pain from youthful breast, 
And stills the groan of burdened age ; 

He lays the suffering down to rest, 
And drives the cruel from the stage. 

He takes no bribe, he fears no threat, 

But walks the land, and sweeps the sea, 

Throws back the doors whose hinges fret, 
And sets the godlike spirit free. 

He raps the door of rich and poor, 

Goes through the earth with noiseless feet ; 

He shakes his glass at prince and boor, 
Then winds them in his icy sheet. 

He's strange and cold, breaks bolts and bars, 
Dethrones the King, unbinds the slave ; 

He veils the sun and hides the stars, 
And lays a nation in its grave. 



THE OLD HARPER 

Welcome all the aged harper, 

As he comes with shrivelled hands ; 

Listen to his rapturous playing, 
And his songs of glorious lands. 

115 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Mark the rising of his spirit, 
As he picks melodious strings; 

See the heaving of his bosom, 

When song lifts her startling wings. 

Music comes in joyous measure, 
Hanging smiles on cherry lips ; 

It o'erflows the swelling bosom ; 
From the heart it sweetly drips. 

It has power to conquer passion, 
Thaw the frozen stream of love, 

Clothe the soul in reverent beauty, 
Ope the starry gates above. 

It can stop the tear of sorrow, 

Smooth the sullen frown of scorn ; 

It can smite the night of anguish, 
Pitch the saffron tents of morn. 

Gone now is the aged harper, 

Wandering through a world of wrong, 
To unlock the iron bosom 

With the golden key of song. 



THE DROUTH IN JUNE 

The sun shot forth his fiery rays 
On restless seas and burning sand ; 

No showers swept through our heated days 
To cheer and beautify the land. 

116 



REV. J. HAZARD HARTZELL 

The earth was parched, the springs were dry, 
And withered were the grass and corn ; 

The shining crescent lit the sky, 
A grainless sickle, till the morn. 

The roads were filled with dust and heat ; 

The streams all weakened in their flow, 
And dews refused to touch the feet 

Of flocks that fed in fields below. 

The plough was followed in the field ; 

The hoe was buried in the soil ; 
But thirsty furrows could not yield 

Their hidden wealth to earnest toil. 

The farmer scanned his field so bare, 
And sighed that mercy was no more ; 

While Famine whined, he thought, in air, 
And crouched around the open door. 

A frowning cloud came muttering in, 
And spread above the suffering plain ; 

The thunder rolled with crashing din, 
And earth drank in the gladdening rain. 



THE COMING OF EASTER 

Now ring the bells in lonely towers, 

Where years shake dust from tireless wing, 

And startle from their sleep the hours 

Which, pillowed on Night's bosom, bring 

117 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Glad news to man, to king and slave, 
That Christ is risen from the Grave. 

And make the tongue, embrowned with rust, 
Inspire all ranks, both small and great, 

The soul is not a speck of dust, 

Thrown blindly from the wheel of fate ; 

For Christ has seized Death's iron crown, 

And trodden his dominion down. 

See ! Nature feels the pulse of life, 

Now throbbing in her swelling veins, 

As out she comes from Winter's strife 

' Neath gladsome light and cheering rains ; 

And from the grave of silent gloom, 

The flowers come smiling into bloom. 

The Nations break from binding chains, 
Leave Care and Strife in narrow cells, 
And bowing to the Love that reigns, 

They worship ' neath the swing of bells ; 
And with the rose of faith in bloom, 
They rise with Christ above the tomb. 

Now Sorrow from her turbid stream, 
Climbs rugged banks, and looks away 

With hope beyond the marble gleam, 
Where Morning in his mantle gray, 

Puts on his crown and from his throne, 

Sends Easter to the Master's own. 

118 



REV. J. HAZARD HARTZELL 

0, Church of Christ with faith profound. 
With windows rich with martyr-stain, 

And altars grand, with symbols round, 
Lift high the voice in thankful strain, 

And let the organ's mighty peal 

Bespeak the joy the People feel ! 



119 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



JABEZ LOTON 

Willie's grave 

Earth holds for us one hallowed spot, 

So dear, that all beside 
Might fade from memory's page forgot, 

Yet this would e'er abide. 

To it on precious pilgrimage 
Our thoughts are daily bound, 

Whatever cares our hearts engage, 
Whatever scenes surround. 

By day, the sunlight's golden bars 

Its guard securely keep ; 
By night, the sympathizing stars 

Watch o'er it while we sleep. 

The light winds kiss it as they pass, 

The birds beside it sing ; 
And o'er it in the dewy grass, 

The little wild-flowers spring. 

We love the flowers, but not for this 

Hold we the spot so dear ; 
We love the birds, but not for this 

Our hearts are centered here ; 

Nor that the sweet breeze o'er it sweeps 
And plume-like branches wave : 

This spot a sacred treasure keeps, — 
This spot is Willie's grave. 

120 



JABEZ LOTON 

JESUS OF GETHSEMANE 

Jesus of Gethsemane, — 

Victim of the ruthless tree, 
Soul of tenderest sympathy, 

Pity me, pity me. 

Tossing all the sultry night 

On the restless bed of pain, 
Longing for the morning light, 

Seeking ease, alas, in vain ; 

Slake the thirst that burns my tongue, 
Cool, cool, my feverish brow, 

Chase the wildering thoughts that throng 
O'er my brain, — clear them now. 

On Thy potent name I call, 

Weary, helpless, and distressed, 

Bless the faith that looks through all, 
Send me rest, send me rest. 



SPEING 

There's a brighter blush of beauty on the moun- 
tains, 

There's a richer gleam of sunshine on the sea, 
There's a. sweeter sound of waters at the fountains, 

There's a fresher Hush of verdure on the lea. 

121 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And the woods are putting on their gay adorning, 
And the flowers are peeping skyward from the 
sod, 

And the birds are singing songs unto the morning, 
And the mist ascends as incense unto God. 

And the breeze goes wandering by with charmed 
sweetness, 
Won by toying with the perfume-laden trees ; 
Oh! the hours are winged with far too much of 
fleetness, 
We would fain delighted dwell with scenes like 
these. 

For the worn heart feels again a thrill of pleasure, 

And the wan face wears again the smile of 

cheer, 

And the tongue of sadness takes up music's 

measure, 

To tell its gladness, Spring, since thou art here. 



THE FALLING SNOW 

How gently falls the snow ! 

The air is calm and still, 
The whispering winds have ceased to blow 

O'er wintr} 7 plain and hill, 
And now from all the o'ershadowed skies 

All noiselessly and slow, — 
As sent on tenderest ministries, 

So falls the feathery snow. 
122 



JABEZ LOTON 

How rudely falls the snow ! 

When o'er the frost-bound earth 
The angry storm- winds fiercely blow 

From the far icy north ; 
On, on, before the furious blast, 

Till whirled in drifts below, 
The myriad flakes go hurling past,— 

So falls the arrowy snow. 

How lightly falls the snow ! 

To those where fortune smiles, 
How gay the wintry moments go 

Where festal mirth beguiles ; 
'Tis but the call to wilder joy 

Than milder seasons know, 
And sport and dance the hours employ — 

So merrily falls the snow. 

How heavily falls the snow ! 

To those— the suffering poor — 
How cold the hearths where want and woe 

Have opened wide the door ; 
0, long and lone they count the hours, 

And heart and hope sink low ; 
For o'er their lot a grim fate lowers,— 

So drearily falls the snow. 



THE THUNDER STORM 

'Tis noon, and as entranced, creation sleeps, 
The sultry sun hangs in a brazen sky, 

123 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

No shadow o'er the blue ethereal sweeps, 

No vagrant breeze goes idly wandering by. 
Portentous silence reigns, as if in fear 
The dumb earth felt the storm approaching near. 

For lo ! slow gathering in the deepening west, 

A murky monitory cloud is seen, 
And now it elevates its towering crest 

With threatening brow, and darkens all the 
scene. 
Anon, with muttering and mysterious sound 
The thunder rolls o'er all the dense profound. 

Then, as if shot from the impending sky, 
A few drops strike the earth, a vivid flash, 

And the terrific peal with quick reply 

Deafens the ear with sharp tumultuous crash ; 

While with impulsive and impetuous roar, 

As from a cataract, the torrents pour. 

But soon the elemental war is past, 

The scattered clouds disclose a fairer blue, 

On the retreating storm heaven's bow is cast, 
All nature smiles that peace is made anew ; 

Sweet music thrills again the leafy shades, 

And charming freshness all the air pervades. 



124 



MARY E. MIXER 



MARY E. MIXER 

BERNARD OF CLUNY 

sainted monk of Cluny, didst thou dream 
Thy whispered prayers sent forth in holy song, 
( Which born in heaven, to all the world belong) 

Should bind the ages by their mystic theme? 

That from that lonely cell a rainbow gleam 
Should span the cycles with its radiant flame, 
Beneath whose arch both saint and sinner claim 

Communion sweet with the Great Heart Supreme? 

Thy words of comfort are the golden stairs, 
God's prophet saw suspended from the sky ; 

Clinging to earth we grovel with our cares, 
While angel visitants their missions ply ; 

They soothe our sorrows, upward bear our tears, 
Till eager hearts see the "sweet country " nigh. 



THE WEAVER 

With wondrous skill, in the crowded mill, 

The spinner her shuttle plies, 
And watches the web with fear and dread, 

As it forms beneath her eyes ; 
For well she knows that one worthless thread, 

Inwove in those even bands, 
Will be traced through the fabric far or near 

As the work of her careless hands. 

125 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

In the mill of life, full of noise and strife, 

We each have a weaver's part, 
And the web of each day, by the passions' play, 

Is woven with curious art ; 
But if false to ourselves, and our Master's name, 

We fashion the fabric thin, 
And with its tissue blend faulty threads 

Of slothfulness and sin, 
To our own account will the mischief come, 

And take from each joy its hoarded sum. 



CONCORD TOWN 

In Memory of a Happy Day. 

0, famous town ! thy sweet elm-shaded ways 

And sparkling stream, which tell the patriot's 
story, 

Seem to have more than rightful share of glory, 
When we recall those golden later days 
Where flint and fire by genius struck ablaze, 

Wakened anew each legend stern and hoary, 

Making thy landmarks a Memento Mori 
That brought the world upon thy shrine to gaze. 
Here the deep shades of " Sleepy Hollow " guard 

Him of the mountain, wood and sylvan stream, 
And calmly rests the stern and fiery bard 

Whose magic touch unveiled the things that 
seem ; 
Here, too, the granite boulder seamed and scarred, 

In truth eternal tell the sage's dream. 

126 



CLARA A. HADLEY 



CLARA A. HADLEY 

HOME FROM THE WAR 

Home from the war he comes, he comes ! 

0, how can a mother wait? 
Holding her heart from her boy apart, 

Till he leaps the garden gate. 

Home from the war, all battle stained,— 

He is young to be so blest, 
Raising his hand for his fatherland, 

And now they must let him rest. 

Ended at last the haunting dreams, 

With terrible grim array 
Of phantom fears that more than the years, 

Have frighten'd my locks to gray. 

He comes ! he comes ! I catch a gleam 
From the hills where he must pass ; 

But my boy's glad bound is not that sound 
That rolls through the meadow grass. 

Why hear I not some sweet salute, 

But only this doling drum ? 
O, mother ! mother ! is this the way 

That thy warrior boy should come? 

Home from the war, they bring a bier 

To mock my expectant sight ; 
Was it for this with such eager hands 

That I draped his room in white? 
127 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Home from the war ! my soldier passed 
Through the crimson field of the slain ; 

And no mother's cry, nor bugle blast 
May summon him back again. 



THE SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILD 

Little child, is an angel nigh, 
Glassing its glory in thine eye? 

Or wears it light the spirit bore 
Out of the infinite before ? 

Little child, is an angel nigh, 
Making my soul within me die, 

That thus my shadowed spirit lies, 
Afraid beneath thy questioning eyes ? 

Sweet life that art, and know'st not why, 
In which such powers unconscious lie ; 

Thou comest to be taught of me. 
While I must pray to be like thee. 

Thou comest to be taught of me, 

Because of all that is to be. 
Folding thy little joys away, 

To be a child of God to-day. 

What worldly wisdom can I give 
To teach this little one to live? 

0, Holy Spirit, draw through mine, 
This precious soul and make it Thine. 

128 



CLARA A. HADLEY 

NOCTURNE 

Dark and still, dark and still, 

I see no light from the distant hill ; 

I hear no sound from the great world sea, 

God and my heart are all that be ! 

Low it lies, low it lies, 

My heart beneath His searching eyes ; 

With all its sacred chambers seen, 

Nor sight, nor sound, nor space between. 

In the dust, heart of hearts ! 
What is it that quickens all thy parts ; 
Through every fibre flashing fires, 
Purging away all low desires ? 

Is it life, is it death, 

Thus catching away my spirit's breath, 

Surging it over like a sea, 

Crushing it with humility? 

Can it be, can it be 
That the awful presence filleth me — 
That nothing lives in earth or air? 
But God and my soul are everywhere ! 



129 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



AUGUSTUS RADCLIFFE GROTE 

THE MARGUERITE 

Pretty flower that June remembers, 
Blossom that July forgets, 

While my hand thy cup dismembers 
Pity me and my regrets ; 

For of all thy wreathed glory 
But one ray remains to fall, 

And that petal tells the story 
That I am not loved at all. 



A LAST WORD 

Hold thy heart within thy hand 
Where the fools around thee stand, 
So that when they torture thee 
Thou canst crush it and be free. 

They will show their brutal strength, 
They will have their way at length ; 
This at least they shall not say, 
They have touched my heart to-day. 



130 



MARY NORTON THOMPSON 



MARY NORTON THOMPSON 

IN MEMORY OF THE PILGRIMS 

Can we forget our Pilgrim sires 

Who dared the stormy main, 
Who left their dear old English homes, 

Freedom and Truth to gain ? 

Chorus — Then sing to-day in praise 

Of that brave band, 
"In God we trust," should ever be 

The watchword of our land. 

The moaning pines sad welcome gave, 

The days fell dark and drear, 
But in their hearts the living flame 

Of Truth shone bright and clear. 

When Spring the hillsides spread with green, 

They counted not the graves 
Of those they loved — with steadfast faith 

They looked to Him who saves. 

Two hundred years have rolled away, 

The Pilgrim's work well done, 
The seed of Truth hath grown a tree 

And Freedom's noblv won. 



131 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



MRS. ELIZABETH M. OLMSTED 

TRAILING ARBUTUS 

Behind the bars, self-drawn, of springtime care, 

Pining and sick for healing of the woods 

Made grand and tender by their solitudes, 
Sudden as answer to a swift-sent prayer 
Came rosy fragrance cradled soft in moss, — 

Sweet April darlings prattling of the rain, 
Their mantles braided with a fairy floss, 

Rose-tinted as a shell or daisy chain, 
Spring's spicy sweetness on their parted lips 

A-thrill with robin's carol and refrain. 
pretty waifs ! already am I glad, 

Who dared to say the winter was too drear, 
Since, folded in his bosom, he hath had 

This ecstasy that fills the poet's year. 



GLEN IRIS 

Sw-eet sylvan Solitude ! thy genius came ! 
Long ages waited for the tryst to be, 
And in a poet's dream of ecstasy, 

All smiles and tears, he spake thy fond, new name, 
Glen Iris ! and the voice of mountain rills 
With low, melodious thunder woke the hills 
In answering echo ; and the swaying vines 
Made leafy canopies, fair forest shrines 

132 



MRS. ELIZABETH M. OLMSTED 

For silent worship. Fairy troops of ferns 
Bent in a mute obeisance as they passed, 
Where velvet mosses had their mantles cast, 

Leading the way to nectar-brimming urns ; 
And over all the softly veiling mist, 
Now rose, now changing pearl and lovely 
amethyst ! 

RESURGEMUS 

Away from the old farm-gate it wound, 

The slow, sad funeral-train ; 
For the reaper, Death, a sheaf had bound 

Of the ripe and bearded grain. 

Past the fold where the shuddering flocks 

Wait for the whistle shrill ; 
Past the barn where the swallow mocks 

The whirr of the winnowing mill ; 

Along where the orchard slants to the sun, 

And the fruits ungarnered fall ; 
Away where the fields, half-plowed and dun, 

Follow the moss-grown wall. 

Across the stream where the drowsy herds 

Rest from the noontide heat ; 
Through the grove where the brooding birds 

Coo to their nestlings sweet ; 

Up the hill where the church spire gleams, 

And the church bell deals its dole ; 
On to the grave where the sunlight streams 
That shall quicken a living soul. 

133 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

THE ROBIN'S TAUNT 

Hush, robin sweet! 

The winter is here ; 

Oh, winter so drear 
With its snow and its sleet ! 

Why should you sing? 
The brooks are all still, 
And the springs are a-chill, 

Where you moistened your wing. 

To my window you come ; 

You're a pauper at best, 

In your little red vest ; 
Shall I give you a crumb ? 

What! gone, robin sweet? 

Did I drive you away, 

Who sang all the day 
In the snow and the sleet? 



SONNET 

To BIrs. George B. Mathews, 
On the Death of her Father, Welton M. Modisette, long blind. 

"Oh, love! oh, light! dear one, lift up thy head!" 
'Tis thus thy father bids thee grieve no more: 
Behold the brightness of that new-found shore 

To which, through darkened days, his footsteps 
led, 

134 



MRS. ELIZABETH M. OLMSTED 

The lamb of God its very soul of light ! 

What rapture of the heavenly dream fulfilled ! 

The anguish and the struggle softly stilled, 
Fair morning breaking through the starless 

night ! 
Oh, love, her waiting angels through the years 

Wrought in his heart a patience sweet, divine ; 

He lived as kneeling at Faith's hol} r shrine, 
The comforter of sorrow's untold tears. 

Wilt thou not listen to his tender voice? 

"Oh, love ! oh, light ! daughter mine, rejoice ! " 



135 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



MARY A. RIPLEY 

ON GUARD 

Do you see that strange, old picture, 

With its stretches of broken wall ? 
The leaning and prostrate columns 

Where the sunshine seems to fall? 
And the skeleton shapes all scattered, 

Looking so grim and hard ? 
But this one — this is a hero, 

A Roman who fell on guard. 

This is an ancient picture — 

I've seen it for many a year, 
Hanging just where you see it, 

Over the mantel here ; 
I'll tell you why I have liked it 

If you'll hear the simple rhyme, 
I'll paint you a different picture, 

I'll show you a fairer time. 

Yonder rises the mountain, 

And yonder tosses the sea, 
And you look over valley and water, 

To the pleasant hills of Capri ; 
The sky is so blue above us, 

And the air is so balmy and still, 
That we doubt the terrible story 

That makes our pulses thrill. 

136 



MARY A. RIPLEY 

A hundred years had not vanished, 

Since Christ walked on the earth, 
Pompeii's gardens and vineyards 

Were ringing with festival mirth. 
Above, the Vesuvian forests 

Spread grandly their branches of green, 
And the hillsides shone out in their beauty, 

A land of enchantment, I ween. 

This is the picture I show you — 

Palace, and villa, and fount, 
Temple, and tower, and terrace, 

Under a vine-covered mount, 
All this glory was buried — 

Sealed by that ashen rain ; 
Statue, and altar, and column, 

Sepulchre, forum, and fane. 

Centuries heaped upon centuries 

Work out their wonderful deeds ; 
Truth has grown strong with the ages, 

Crushing down soul-killing creeds. 
Man has stood firm for his birthright, 

Freedom is throned in the West, 
Onward the march, and still onward, 

Nevermore sinking to rest. 

But what of the deep-buried city 

Under the fire-smitten hill ? 
What of the maidens and matrons, 

Lying there hidden and still ? 

137 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Off with their ashen covering ! 

Bring them out into the light ! 
Let the old halls of Pompeii 

Break on the world's waiting sight ! 

Stalwart hands were outstretched then, 

And the sunlight crept along, 
Following the dusky toiler, 

Working with jest and song; 
Suddenly, all was silent, 

The swarthy face grew white ; 
There lay a noble lady 

Decked in her jewels bright. 

There was her little daughter, 

And there was her princely boy ; 
The tempest came down upon them, 

In their festal hour of joy. 
And under an arch of triumph, 

A slave with his master lay ; 
They had perished beside an altar 

As they lingered there to pray. 

So the toilers slowly lifted 

The shroud from off the past ; 
Statue, and tomb, and temple, 

Stood out in the day at last. 
But the grandest thing they found there, 

His fame by time unmarred, 
Was the valiant Roman soldier, 

Who had fallen while on guard. 

138 



MARY A. RIPLEY 

Do you see what a radiant glory 

Rests on his regal head ? 
Is it the summer sunshine 

On his brave, broad forehead shed ? 
Is it a mystic token 

That valor forever lives? 
Or is it my soul that crowns him 

For the lesson that he gives ? 

For in that terrible ruin. 

Men fleeing in pallid fear, 
Some grasping their gold and jewels, 

He found his duty here. 
The temple might open its portals, 

The palace unbar its gate, 
But the soldier on guard was unheeding, 

He must bravely watch and wait. 

What are mosaics and marbles? 

What are bright jewels and gold ? 
What are the antique treasures, 

Out of the gray dust rolled ? 
Nothing, beside the master — 

Lord of a royal heart — 
Whom frenzy nor wild disaster 

Could drive from his task apart. 

So in life's tumult and tempest, 
Let us stand firm for the right, 

Whether we toil with the weakest 
Or under the banner of might. 

139 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Then when the dead world is summoned, 
When the dark tomb is unbarred, 

God's blessed angels shall find us, 
Fallen while standing on guard. 



DEH-GA-YA-SOH 

From "Voices of the Glen. v 

Creeping adown the gray old wall, 

Comes Deh-ga-ya-soh, the waterfall. 

Looking through twilight to catch the sight 

We see the shimmer of raiment white. 

The moonshine lies on her silver hair, 

It crowns with brightness her brow so rare ; 

While silently down the mossy wall, 

She creeps like a phantom waterfall. 

As low she leaps to the starlit glen, 

Her beauty steals to my feet again ; 

And I reach my hand as she hurries by 

Where the leaves and the purple flowerets lie. 

I reach my hand for the maiden's kiss, 

Ere she wanders away through the deep abyss. 

A splash of water o'er ragged stone, 

And I am left in the dark alone. 

But ever she comes and ever she goes, 

And over the spot her magic throws, 

Till a nameless mystery wraps the shade, 

Where naught but the leaves and waters played; 

140 



MARY A. RIPLEY 

And a mystical chant thrills all the air, 
As we linger and list to the voices there; 
And we see a spirit in saintly white, 
Where Deh-ga-ya-soh falls down in light. 



oh, poet! sing an autumn song! 

Oh, poet! sing an autumn song! 
The forest shows a burning crown, 
Our birds to southern isles have flown : 

Oh, Poet! sing an autumn song! 

The hurrying brook moans cheerlessly 
Between its faded, flowerless banks ; 
The willows stand in drooping ranks 

Where summer walked so peerlessly. 

Against the cold October sky, 
I see bright crimson banners hang ; 
And where the nestled birdling sang, 

The faded, ashen streamers fly. 

And autumn's flaming leaves fall fast 
On tiny mounds and lengthened graves ; 
The church-yard shows its phosphor waves, 

Seared foot-prints of a fiery past. 

Oh, Poet ! sing an autumn song ! 
The day is drear, and life is low, 
The vernal tides have backward flow, 

And winter hours are dark and long. 
October, 1859. 

141 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

FLORIDA FLOWERS 

Ye make me dream, ye simple things, 

Of warmer, bluer skies, 
Of twittering birds, and scented woods 

Where summer fountains rise. 

I see the white waves wash the shore, 

As on that Easter Day, 
AVhen bright before the Spanish ships 

The flowery landscape lay. 

I read upon your fading leaves 

Old Ponce de Leon's fame, 
And marvel not your balmy breath 

Should give the land its name. 

So like a grand cathedral looked 

The strange, wild forest scene ; 
Gray columns twined with mossy wreath, 

And blossomed aisles between, 

That "Pascus Florida," they said, 
" Here Christ shall be adored ! " 

And so they named it "Florida," 
In honor of our Lord. 



FOR THEE 

The last poem written by Mary A. Ripley. 

I weary, for the way is hard and long ; 
I have forgot my early morning song; 
Footsore and faint, upon the ground, I lie 
Out of the dust, I only send a cry 
For Thee. 

142 



MARY A. RIPLEY 

I hunger, for my food is bitter bread, 
Mingled with falling tears which I have shed ; 
Out of the arms of death, or ere I die, 
My suffering soul lifts up her pleading cry 
For Thee. 

I thirst ; the cooling springs no more o'erflow, 
The summer drought has touched their sources so ; 
My spirit fails beneath a fervid sky, 
Yet my hot lips still tremble with a cry 
For Thee. 

0, Way of Life ! draw in my weary feet ! 
0, Bread of Life ! of Thee I fain would eat ! 
0, Living Water ! fill my chalice high ! 
0, Blessed Christ! now hear my suppliant cry 
For Thee. 



143 



POETS AND POETEY OF BUFFALO 



JAMES N. JOHNSTON 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

April, 1865. 

Bear him to his Western home, 

Whence he came four years ago ; 

Not beneath some Eastern dome, 

But where Freedom's airs may come, 

Where the prairie grasses grow, 

To the friends who loved him so. 

Take him to his quiet rest; 

Toll the bell and fire the gun ; 
He who served his Country best, 
He whom millions loved and bless'd, 

Noav has fame immortal won ; 

Rack of brain and heart is done. 

Shed thy tears, ! April rain, 
O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps ! 

Wash away the bloody stain ! 

Drape the skies in grief, 0, rain ! 
Lo ! a nation with thee weeps, 

Grieving o'er her martyred slain. 

To the people whence he came, 
Bear him gently back again. 

Greater his than victor's fame ; 
His is now a sainted name; 

Never ruler had such gain — 

Never people had such pain. 

144 



JAMES N. JOHNSTON 

IN VAIN, O MAN! CONTENDING 
From the German. 

In vain, man! contending; 

Thou mak'st but care and pain 
A life-repose intending 

Thou never canst attain. 
O'ertakes the king and peasant 
Alike, death's fearful smart, 
Be silent for the present, 

And patient, m} r heart ! 

Not ever bloom the roses, 

A storm and they must fall ; 
Yet mother-earth discloses 

A grave prepared for all ; 
The day that has no morrow — 

When that last day appears, 
Then ended is all sorrow 

And wept are all our tears. 

From woes no man can number 

We're borne at last to rest ; 
Close-to, in endless slumber, 

Are weary eyelids pressed ; 
Death's arrow is unfailing 

To quiet every smart ; 
A few more days of ailing, 

Be patient, my heart ! 



145 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

A MEMORY 

Bright summer dream of white cascade, 

Of lake, and wood, and river! 
The vision from the eye may fade, — 
The heart keeps it forever. 
There beauty dwells 
In rarest dells, — 
There every leaf rejoices; 
By cliff and steep, 
By crag and deep, 
You hear their pleasant voices. 

From forest flower and meadow bloom, 

The soft wind passing over, 
Brings the wild roses' fresh perfume, 
The sweet breath of the clover ; 

And odors rare, 

Pulse through the air, 
In waves of pleasure flowing, — 

We dream away 

The passing day, 
Regardless of its going. 

Through leafy boughs the sunlight glows, 

The skies are blue above us, 
The happy laugh that comes and goes 
Is from the friends who love us. 
Oh ! bliss combined 
Of sense and mind, 

146 



JAMES N. JOHNSTON 

Rare boon to mortals given, 

Before onr eyes 

Is Paradise, 
Above the blue is heaven ! 

Take, Memory, to thy choicest shrine, 

And guard as sacred treasure, 
The hours of ecstacy divine, 
The days of untold pleasure ; 

Though many a scene 

May come between, 
In way of future duty, 

We still shall deem 

Our summer dream 
As peerless in its beauty. 



SAINT AUGUSTINE 

I silently sit by the Spanish Fort, 

And watch the ensign fall ; 
The white-sailed boats are seeking the port, 

Or lie by the low sea-wall. 

And darkness spreads o'er the eastern sky, 
Save the "flash-light" by the shore, 

I hear the Matanzas ebbing by, 
And the ocean's distant roar. 

Stilled is the beat of the sea-birds' wings, 
And borne on the evening breeze 

There comes the calm that the twilight brings 
From gardens of tropical trees. 

147 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And odors of sweetness fill the air, 

As the shadows fall on the deep ; 
And lost are time, and space, and care, 

And whether I wake or sleep. 

For thoughts are mine, which no one tells, — 

Of what life has brought to me ; 
They came from the old cathedral bells, 

And are gone on an endless sea. 



REST 

Nature rewards a friendly eye — 
Reveals herself to sympathy, 
But coldly meets the passer-by. 

And he who'd win her peerless grace, 
Or scan the fairness of her face, 
Must seek her in her dwelling-place. 

The rifted clouds are snowy-fleeced, 
The gorgeous sun ascends the East, 
A fiery-vestured Orient priest. 

The pine-tops glisten in his glow, 

The brooks are burnished in their flow, 

A brightness rests on all below : 

On leaf-roofed nook and wooded ridge, 
On cataract and lofty bridge, 
Down to the kindly water's edge. 

148 



JAMES N. JOHNSTON 

Away from narrow, selfish schemes ; 
Where cheerful sunshine ever beams, 
In hallowed rest my spirit dreams. 

From human strife and wordy brawls, 
I list to Nature's pleasant calls, 
And drink the joy of waterfalls. 

A halo rests on rock and tree, 
A glory flits across the lea — 
God's work in beauty robed I see. 

While upward mounts the smoking spray, 
Soft airs about my temples play, 
And breezes kiss the heat away. 

Beyond the river's graceful leap, 

Where white-lipped segments seek the deep, 

The shining waters downward creep. 

The sl<y bends o'er us crystal-clear, 
No tokened wraith of storm is near, 
And yet God's covenant is here ! 

Calm's finger leaneth on the air, 
Peace dwelleth on the waters there, 
And Rest abideth everywhere. 

The air is full of symphonies, 
Leaf-rustles and the hum of bees, 
And sounds like roar of distant seas. 

Love's curtain shuts the past so grim, 
No future cometh dark or dim, 
In present bliss the senses swim. 

149 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

AT THE GRAVE OF MARY E. LORD 

Queen City of the western lake, 

By Erie's pleasant waters, 
You mourn for her whom death did take — 

The kindliest of your daughters. 

A child of yours, she loved you well, 
She shared your growth and glory ; 

Her name shall in your annals dwell, 
Her life will be your story. 

The joys of nature were her own, 

In country or in city ; 
Of all God's creatures she found none 

Too low for love and pity. 

Into her hospitable home 

Came many a woodland stranger, 

For there they fearlessly might roam, 
Secure from foe and danger. 

When hearts were cold and law was dead, 

She saw the horse o'erloaded, 
The wound unhealed, the kine unfed, 

The beast to th' shambles goaded. 
Her woman's soul, with holy zeal, 

Passed not the wrong unheeded ; 
She taught a city's heart to feel, 

And conquered where she pleaded. 
The true, the tender one is gone, 

The faithful heart is sleeping; 
Home of our dead, dear Forest Lawn, 

We leave her in your keeping. 

150 



JAMES N. JOHNSTON 

TO GLEN IRIS 

The home, at Portage, N. Y., of the Honorable William Pryor Letchworth, 
LL. D., the widely-known Author and Philanthropist. 

For all the magic by thy master wrought, 

In working out oh thee his bounteous scheme, 
And making thee an artist-poet's dream, — 

For friendship's sweet repose, exalted thought 
And generous welcome, ever unforgot, 

Thy summer woods, the moonlight on the stream, 
With all the memories that rise supreme, — 

Dear Glen, for these alone I love thee not. 
Thy master's weary years of ceaseless care 

To aid the sick, the hapless one to seek, — 
His voice of mercy pleading for the weak, — 

His word of hope to brighten dark despair, — 
His potent message helpful everywhere, — 

For these I love thee most and these forever speak. 



151 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



DAVID GRAY 

THE FOG BELL AT NIGHT 

Out on the dim and desolate lake, 

Chime on chime falls, measured and slow ; 
Scarce the dull trance of the night they break, 

Sounding so wearily, long and low ; 
Telling the hour in its voiceless flight — 

Stirring old thoughts of our dear, dead joys : 
0, dreary, mysterious night, 

Shadow and fear have at last a voice. 

Far in a region of dream-delight, 

Fondly I wandered but moments ago, — 
Ah, that knell from the distant night, 

Hanging 1113'" dreams with trappings of woe ! 
Sadly, solemnly tolling — tolling, 

Floating afar on the misty air ; 
Every bell like a dirge is knolling, 

Every chime is a funeral prayer ! 

" Life ! " they cry to the mariner, seaward, — 

What to the slumbering thousands near ? 
Father above, do they beckon us Thee-ward? 

See ! I strain thro' the night to hear ! 
Sadly, solemnly tolling — tolling, 

Dying away on the ghostly air, — 
Every bell for a soul is knolling, 

Every chime is a funeral prayer. 

152 



DAVID GRAY 

THE LAST COUNCIL ON THE GENESEE 

The fire sinks low ; the drifting- smoke 

Dies softly in the autumn haze; 
And silent are the tongues that woke 

In speech of other days. 
Gone, too, the dusky ghosts whose feet 

But now yon listening thicket stirred ; 
Unscared within its covert meet 

The squirrel and the bird. 

The story of the past is told ; 

But thou, Valley sweet and lone — 
Glen of the rainbow — thou shalt hold 

Its romance as thine own ! 
Thoughts of thine ancient forest prime 

Shall sometimes tinge thy summer dreams, 
And shape to low poetic rhyme 

The music of thy streams. 

When Indian Summer flings her cloak 

Of brooding azure on the woods, 
The pathos of a vanished folk 

Shall haunt thy solitudes. 
The blue smoke of their fires, once more, 

Far o'er the hills shall seem to rise, 
And sunset's golden clouds restore 

The red man's paradise. 

Strange sounds of a forgotten tongue 
Shall cling to many a crag and cave, 

In wash of falling waters sung, 
Or murmur of the wave. 

153 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And oft in midmost hush of night, 

Shrill, o'er the deep-mouthed cataract's roar, 

Shall ring the war-cry from the height, 
That woke the wilds of yore. 

Sweet Vale, more peaceful bend thy skies, 

Thy airs be fraught with rarer balm ! 
A people's busy tumult lies 

Hushed in thy sylvan calm. 
Deep be thy peace ! while fancy frames 

Soft idyls of thy dwellers fled ;— 
They loved thee, called thee gentle names, 

In the long summers dead. 

Quenched is the fire ; the drifting smoke 

Has vanished in the autumn haze; 
Gone too, Vale, the simple folk 

Who loved thee in old days. 
But, for their sakes — their lives serene, 

Their loves, perchance as sweet as ours — 
Oh, be thy woods for aye more green, 

And fairer bloom thy flowers ! 



COMING 

She said she'd come in May, but it seemed so far 
away 
That our hearts grew sick at first, to think of 
waiting her so long ; 

154 



DAVID GRAY 

And the months were counted o'er, to the day that 
should restore 
In one rich gift the spring to earth, to us our 
light and song. 

And autumn shed its leaves on the wind that 
comes and grieves 
In the wood and 'round the houses, like a ghost 
that died of woe ; 
And the dull, cold clouds, at last, drooped and 
whitened in the blast, 
Till all the earth lay still as death, in one long 
dream of snow. 

But long ere spring had filled the earth with sap, 
or thrilled 
The subtle nerves of flowers, or called to swal- 
lows o'er the main, 
Our hearts had felt the stir of the spring to come 
with her, 
And yearned with joyous thoughts to greet our 
darling back again. 

And the snowdrop floated up from the snow its 
fragile cup ; 
And the violets stole the blue of heaven, one 
morning after rain ; 
And the wild anemone met us trembling on the 
lea, — 
All with the sole sweet words to tell: 'She is 
coming back again ' ; 

155 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Fast, fast, March, fleet past, on thy winter- 
battling blast, 
And, gentle April, linger not beneath thy skies 
of rain; 
But strew thy scanty flowers, and speed the happy 
hours 
That bring sweet May to earth, to us our dar- 
ling back again ! 



DEDICATION IN A LADY S ALBUM 

I think now, of some knight in fairy times, 

Whose footsteps falter on the charmed limits 

Of some enchanted place, where, in the hush 

Of vacant halls, white Silence is uprisen, 

Her finger high uplifted to forbid 

The impending foot ; for, Mary, so my pen 

Hath faltered at the white, untrodden threshold 

Of this, thy Book of Beauty. I would fain 

Some worthier hand than mine had broke the spell 

Which sat till now about its golden rim. 

Bu t, as it is, the spell is broken ; and these pages — 

May their unwritten vacancy become 

A beauteous garden, where sweet thoughts shall 

blossom ; — 
A place where dear desires and hopes shall nes- 
tle;— 
A fount, where Memory, mayhap worn and weary, 
In after years shall, bending, drink and rise 
Thrilled with the wild, wild life of long ago ! 

156 



DAVID GRAY 

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN AND HIS CREW 

Toll the saintly minster bell, 

For we know they're now at rest ; 
Where they lie, they sleep as well 

As in kirkyard old and blest. 
Let the requiem echo free 

From the shores of England, forth 
Over leagues of angry sea, 

Toward the silence of the North. 

Half a score of years or more, 

They were phantoms in our dreams ; 
Many a night, on many a shore 

Lit by wan Aurora gleams, 
We have tracked the ghostly band — 

Seen distressful signals wave — 
Till we find dim William's Land 

Holy with the heroes' grave. 

Toll the bell, that they may rest, 

Haunting spectres of our brain,— 
They for whom her tireless quest 

Love pursued so long in vain. 
Nevermore let fancy feign 

That the wondering Esquimaux 
Haply sees them toil again, 

Wild and haggard, through the snow 

From the Erebus they pass'd 
To a realm of light and balm ; 

And the Terror sailed at last 
Into peace and perfect calm. 

157 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Toll the bell ; but let its voice, 

Moaning in the minster dome, 
Change at times, and half rejoice; 

For the mariners are home ! 



A NINETEENTH CENTURY SAINT 

Beautiful is my darling's face ; 

And, yet, I know her heart so well 
That, thinking always of the pearl, 

I have not time to praise the shell. 
I care not that with words of mine 

Her eyes' deep splendor be extolled, 
Nor any wreath of speech would twine 

Within her tresses' wavy gold. 
Not mine to praise the Saxon hue 

That on her cheek the rose outstrips, 

Nor see in curvings of her lips 
Some Greek ideal born anew. 
Ah, no ; far other court is due, 

From such as near her heart may dwell, 

My darling, whom I love so well. 

I think (while softer fancies sleep) 
Of those old altar-pictures, quaint, 
Which pure-souled Memling loved to paint ; 

Or those that in fair Florence keep 
His fame as limner and as saint, 

Who, kneeling, painted heaven, and so 

Was named of men Angelico. 

158 



DAVID GRAY 

All shut, such reliquaries stand, 
Rich paintings on each folded lid 
That keeps the inner beauty hid,* 

And almost one is stopped to gaze, 

And half— before the doors expand — 

Would lift the censor of his praise. 

But, open ! and there straightway beam 

Such glories of the fairer dream, 
All other light is quenched than its. 

Unclouded glows the golden air, 

And ringed with heaven's own aureole, 

The very deep of Beauty's soul 
Throbs visible where The Virgin sits. 

So, curtained from the vulgar eye, 
Abides the vision, chaste and fair ; 

And though the world may pass it by, 
Or laud its covering unaware, 
soul of love ! heart of prayer ! 
Look inward ; for the shrine is there ! 

* Some of the most beautiful paintings by the old masters are covered 
by folding lids, on which pictures have been painted by an inferior hand. 



HOW THE YOUNG COLONEL DIED 

You want to hear me tell you, how the young 

Colonel died ? 
God help me, memory will not fail on that, nor 

tongue be tied. 

159 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Aye, write it down and print it in your biggest 

type of gold, 
For, sure, a braver heart than his no mortal 

breast could hold. 
'Twas the second weary night of that hot and 

bloody June ; 
Through the brush, along the picket, we walked 

beneath the moon ; 
Behind us, sixty miles of death, Virginia's thickets 

lay ; 
Before us was Cold Harbor, — the hell to come 

next day ; 
We talked about old Buffalo, and how the girls we 

knew, 
At the door-steps, with their sweethearts, sat in 

the silver dew. 
And, looking at the fields below, where the mist 

lay like a pond, 
We seemed to see the long dark streets and the 

white lake far beyond. 
Then, turning sudden: "George," he said, "I'm 

glad a moon so bright 
Will hold her face to mine, when I lie dead 

to-morrow night! " 
We charged, at noon, the Colonel led green Erin's 

old brigade, 
'Twas Long-streets' blazing cannon behind their 

breast-works played. 
We charged, till, full in front, we felt that fiery 

breaker swell — 

160 



DAVID GRAY 

A sea of rattling muskets, in a storm of grape 

and shell ! — 
The Colonel led, in fire and smoke his sword would 

wave and shine, 
And still the brave sound of his voice drew on 

the straggling line. 
Then, all at once, our colors sank ; I saw them reel 

and nod ; 
The Colonel jumped and took them before they 

touched the sod ; 
Another spring, and, with a shout — the rebs will 

mind it well — 
He stood alone upon their works, waved the old 

flag, and fell ! 
As o'er the surf at Wicklow I've seen the sea-gull 

fly, 

His voice had sailed above the storm, and sounded 

clear and high ; 
It seemed, I swear, I had not heard the hellish rack 

and din, 
Till then, all sudden, on my ears, the thunder- 
crash rushed in. 
'Twas vain to stand up longer; what could they 

do but yield? 
Our broken remnant melted back, across the 

bloody field. 
I staid to help the Colonel, and crept to where he 

lay. 
A smile came, tender, o'er his face, but he motioned 

me away. 

161 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

I bent to watch his parting lips and shade him from 

the light — 
"I'm torn to pieces, George," he said; "go, save 

yourself — good-night ! " 
As tender as my mother's, that smile came up and 

shone 
Once more upon his marble face and the gallant 

soul was gone ! 
Three times the same full moon arose and looked 

him face to face, 
Before the rebels flung a truce above the cursed 

place. 
We laid him near Cold Harbor, but the spot is 

bleak and bare, — 
I hate to think that I'm at home, and he still 

lying there. 
I doubt his sleep will not be sweet nor his loving 

spirit still, 
Till he lies among the friendly dust of yonder 

slanting hill, 
Where, from the streets he loved so well, might 

float their daily hum, 
And the lake's low roar upon the beach, in quiet 

nights would come. 
Ah! well the town might plant his tomb, with 

marble words to tell 
How the bravest of her blood was poured when 

young McMahon fell.* 

* Colonel JameB P. McMahon, of the 164th Regiment, N. Y. S. Volunteers. 

162 



DAVID GRAY . 

MTJRILLO'S "IMMACULATE CONCEPTION" 

Whence is the spell — 0, fair and free from guile, 

Thou with the young moon shod! that binds 
my brain ? 

Is thine that orb of fable, which did wane, 
Darkening o'er sad Ortygia's templed isle- 
Beautiful Artemis, hid from earth awhile, 

And on the pale monk's vigil risen again, 

A wonder in the starry sky of Spain ? 
Comes the Myth back, Madonna, in thy smile? 

Yea! thou dost teach that the Divine may be 
The same, to passing creeds and a,ges given ; 
And how the Greek hath dreamed, or churchman 
striven, 

What reck we, who with eyes tear-blinded see 
Thee standing loveliest in the open heaven ? — 

Ave Maria ! only heaven and thee! 



A GOLDEN WEDDING POEM 

Read at the Golden Wedding Anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. 
James Goold, of Albany, N. Y. 

0, Love, whose patient pilgrim feet 

Life's longest path have trod, 
Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet 

The dearer love of God, — 
The sacred myrtle wreathes again 

Thine altar as of old ; 
And what was green with summer, then, 

Is mellowed, now, to gold. 

163 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Not now, as then, the Future's face 

Is flushed with Fancy's light, 
But Memory, with a milder grace, 

Shall rule the feast to-night. 
Blest was the sun of joy that shone, 

Nor less the blinding shower, — 
The bud of fifty years agone 

Is love's perfected flower ! 

0, Memory, ope thy mystic door ; 

0, dream of youth, return ; 
And let the lights that gleamed of yore 

Beside this altar burn ! 
The past is plain ; 't was love designed 

E'en sorrow's iron chain, 
And mercy's shining thread has twined 

With the dark warp of pain. 

So be it still. 0, Thou who hast 

That younger bridal blest, 
Till the May-morn of love has passed 

To evening's golden west, — 
Come to this later Cana, Lord, 

And, at Thy touch divine, 
The water of that earlier board 

To-night shall turn to wine. 



164 



DAVID GRAY 

REST 

Once more, blessed valley, I seek and have found 
thee ; 
Tired, hunted, I ran, with the mad world hal- 
looing; 
I slipped to thy shade — I am safe from pursu- 
ing— 
No care climbeth over the green walls that bound 

thee. 
In the hush of thy woodlands that draw me and 

woo me, 
By the rush of thy waters whose thunders thrill 
through me, 
In deep hemlock cover, in vine-trellised arbor, 
My heart finds once more a blest haven and 
harbor. 
But the summers are many, the years have flown 
fleetly, 
Since first we came hither with revel and 

laughter. 
Ah, how easy the jest, then, the mirth follow- 
ing after, 
The poem to praise thee, the song that ran 
sweetly. 

It was joy, then, that met us by greenwood and 

meadow ; 
It is rest, now, rest only, we crave in thy shadow. 

Glen Iris, 1877. 

165 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



ANNIE R. ANNAN 

(Mrs. William H. Glenny) 

SALUTATORY 

Read at the Twenty -fifth Anniversary of the Buffalo Seminary, June, 1876. 

Hast thou a welcome, mother-shore, 
For us, sea-farers, who ouce more 
Into thy arms are backward blown, — 
Thy children who have not outgrown 
The need of refuge, nor outsailed 
The love of the kind shore that hailed, 
With prophecies that sank to prayer, 
Our challenge of the sea and air ? 

Enfold us, while the hours and tides 

Forget us, and the keen sun rides, 

A heedless taskmaster, his round — 

Enfold us until we have found 

The little maids we used to be, 

Who loved not books, but slipped from thee 

To play at life, as sand birds trip 

At the sea's edge with wings that dip 

The waves, and with sweet folly woo 
Their vast embrace, as if they knew 
Their little footfalls gave the key 
To that large music of the sea. 
Bear with us, mother, till we find — 
Our foolish child-selves left behind — 
The older maids, who, scarce more wise, 
Gave to the page but truant eyes ; 

166 



ANNIE R. ANNAN 

Who conned their books, demure and grave, 
While all the level years grew brave 
With rosy lures. How ran the song 
We used to sing when days were long? 
sunny wave, make haste to call 
Us seaward from this tiresome thrall ! 
laggard sun, do not delay 
To light us to a freer day ! 

More kind the wave that now restores 

Us to these old familiar shores, 

Whence we may see — upheld in arms. 

Like children, from all vague alarms — 

The silver marriage of the sky 

And sea, and it may chance descry 

Those far-off headlands on whose face 

Truth shines, though mists enwrap their base. 

The wayfarer, who finds the hills 
That circled all his boyish haunts 
Still green, half dreams that they advance 

To meet him, while the air distills 

Spent odors from the days gone by ; 
The clover, pines — he knows them all, 
And stops to guess at each bird call 

That di'ops from out the friendly sky. 

Like gentle leaders of the blind, 

All sounds and scents conduct him back 
On many an old forgotten track ; 

This slender wood-path calls to mind 

167 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The generous spring that held to him 
So full a cup for all his draughts, 
And how all day the quivering shafts 

Of sunshine played from rim to rim. 

He hurries on, a boy again ; 

The years are but as idle dreams, 

And lads like him it well beseems 
To laugh at the vain cares of men. 
Is that a partridge's drum he hears ? 

And these the birches straight, white-limbed, 

That shade the spring, as fully brimmed 
With crystal as in by-gone years ! 

He stoops to see the ruddy face 

That answers to his boyish heart, 
But lo ! that image has small part 

In youthful jollity and grace. 

Such wayfarers are we to-day, 

And this the gracious spring we knew, 
From whose full source we hourly drew 

Some knowledge of our untried way. 

AVhat if some change be mirrored there ! 

An open child-soul for a guest 

Is of celestial gifts the best ; 
Better the world to us seem fair 
Than we be always fair to it. 

Ah ! well, the old-time groups re-form 

And hand seeks hand with pressure warm 
And friends to friends again are knit; 

168 



ANNIE R. ANNAN 

Not all — for some who had one dawn 
With us, departed ere the sun 
Had warmed the path they were to run. 

And yet they seem not wholly gone — 

A violet and the farthest star 

Are neighbors in a wayside pool, 
And those who to a higher school 

Have passed, are not withdrawn so far 
But each fair face by death endeared 
Is here with ours serenely sphered. 



MAIDENHOOD 

What happy star shone on her birth? 
What grassy corner of the earth 
Grew daisies for her baby feet 
To dance between, since they repeat 
On all the flowerless ways they pass 
That breezy motion of the grass? 

What brook bewitched her to its brink 
And drew her fresh lips down to drink 
Its music, while it slipped unseen 
Its happy cadences between ? — 
So sweet and glad the voice that slips 
From ambush of her maiden lips. 

What winds upon the hills gave room 
To her and buffeted to bloom 
Her rounded cheeks, and made her hair 
A flying sunshine in the air? 

169 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

For still, like sun-gleams on a rose, 
Her wayward color comes and goes. 

What greybeard tree upon the down 
Caught, as she sped, her floating gown, 
And whispered through his ancient girth 
The long dumb sorrow of the earth ? — 
For the sweet pity in her eyes 
Almost their gladness overlies. 



DANDELION 

At dawn, when England's childish tongue 

Lisped happy truths, and men were young, 

Her Chaucer with a gay content 

Hummed through the shining grass, scarce bent 

By poet's foot, and, plucking, set— 

All lusty, sunny, dewy-wet— 

A daudelion in his verse, 

As children shut gold in a purse. 

At noon, when harvest colors die 

On the pale azure of the sky, 

And dreams through dozing grasses creep 

Of winds that are themselves asleep, 

Rapt Shelley found the airy ghost 

Of that bright flower the spring loves most, 

And ere one silvery ray was blown 

From its full disc, made it his own. 

170 



ANNIE R. ANNAN 

Now from the stubble poets glean 

Scant flowers of thought: the Muse would wean 

Her myriad nurslings, feeding them 

On petals dropped from a dry stem. 

For one small plumule, still adrift — 

The wind-blown dandelion's gift — 

The field once blossomy we scour 

Where the old poets plucked the flower. 



AT SUNSET 

Winds are asleep — no lightest stir 
Of ragged leaf, or tiny whirr 
Of snowy plumule doth betray 

Their place of dreams ; 
The troubled currents of the day 
Are drifting to the west away 

In noiseless streams ; 

The wind-ploughed furrows whitely show 

Along the level of the snow 

Whose utmost edge melts in the glow 

Of sunset fire ; 
A thicket of black branches spread 
All nakedly against the red, 

And like a spire 

The pine that clears the crimson bar 
With slim fixed finger from afar 
Points out the birthplace of a star ; 
171 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

But ere its birth, 
The west, like a great field in flower, 
Recalls her bloom for one warm hour 

To the bare earth. 

All birds that skim the summer skies 
Seem present to my wistful eyes ; 
All songs that stir to sweet surprise 

The solitudes, 
Renew their sweetness note by note, 
Between the silences there float 

Faint interludes. 

I see the star whose herald dim 

Still clears the sky's pale yellow rim — 

The steadfast finger, grown more slim, 

Wears the first ray, 
But, glad to merge, like John of old, 
The prophet in the star foretold, 

He fades away. 

Old outlines from the vision fade, — 
The sky grows paler sha.de by shade ; 
As a full rose, wherein are laid 

Ripe seeds of change, 
Drops leaf by leaf till poor and bare 
The stem hangs in the sleeping air — 

So, sad and strange, 

A kindred trouble works decay, — 
The hour's dear splendors fade away 
While all its graces plead delay. 
172 



ANNIE R. ANNAN 

It is the night — 
Birthtime of stars — no breath or sound; 
Mists climb the sky, creep on the ground. 

Yet gleams of light 

Still linger to prolong a mood 

That might some summer noon be wooed — 

Of fellowship with all the brood 

That paired and built, — 
Of easy commerce with small lives 
Whose humming told me when their hives 

Were honey-filled. 

Gay joys may not be thine, blest Hour, 
But darkness clothes thee with a power ; 
The night hath given thee a dower 

Of tender thought, 
That lightly comes, the soul's own breath, 
And hopes that outrun life and death 

Are thine unsought. 

There comes a night, dear and true ! 

Along the path that we pursue 

Its shadow drinks the morning dew ; 

We see it creep 
Across the living bloom we tread, 
A thing too fugitive to dread, 

And yet we weep — 

Light tears for rainbow uses meet ; 
Half-fears, that quicken failing heat, 
And prick our lazy bliss to sweet 
Self-consciousness, 

173 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

That else might sometimes in a trance, 
Too prodigal of time and chance, 
Forget to bless ! 

If in mid-heaven hung our sun, 

If all our path were overrun 

With flowers that missed the graces won 

From shadows gray, 
Beloved, thou mightst fail to keep 
My feet from falling on the steep 

And dusty way, 

Nor always guard mine eyes from tears. 
In the wide margin of those years 
Where all the room for speech appears 

That love doth crave, 
The silent speech of hand to hand 
Might be less dear, in that strange land 

That had no grave. 



RECOMPENSE 

The summer coaxed me to be glad, 
Entreating with the primrose hue 

Of sunset skies, with downward calls 

From viewless larks with winds that blew 

The red-topped clover's breath abroad, 
And told the mirth of water-falls ; 

In vain ! my heart would not be wooed 

From the December of its mood . 

174 



ANNIE R. ANNAN 

But on a day of wintry skies 

A withered rose slipped from my book ; 
And as I caught its faint perfume 

The soul of summer straight forsook 
The little tenement it loved, 

And filled the world with song and bloom, 
Missed, in their season, by my sense ; 
So found my heart late recompense. 



RYDAL WATER 

Day's farewell breath, scarce ruffling Windermere, 
Steals on to die among the reeds that bow 
To their slim shadows ; and in Rydal now 

Yon rosy cloud, un vexed, may see a clear, 

Still vision of her loveliness appear. 

Calm in the mellow air stands Silver How, 
The sunshine lingering on his lifted brow, 

Yet, thinly veiled, a star is throbbing near. 

Sleep on now, Rydal, for at dawn the grass, 

Wind-stirred, will whisper round thy Words- 
worth's Seat, — 

Stirred by the wind, but never more, alas ! 
By thy true lover's once-familiar feet. 

Nature, thou virgin mother breathed upon 

By God, hast thou no other priestly son? 



175 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

AN AFTER-THOUGHT 



I heard a song so sweet and rare, 
Its tuneful path was through the air, 
Its death the echo of a prayer. 

My face flamed as the singer's should, 

But hers — rained on with flowers, she stood 

As one who mourns a half-won good ; 

The song unsung we did not hear, 

Though ever to her inward ear 

Its prisoned sweetness grew more clear. 



ii. 



The Poet saw through reverent eyes 
The blissful world that round us lies — 
The play of leaves on twilight skies, 

The quiver of a swallow's wings. 

So knit are souls of thought with things, 

That from each form some symbol springs. 

And when from pain of bliss he spoke, 
Such sense of fairness in men woke, 
They called him, Poet of blind folk ; 

But that rare grace which nature wore, 
Haunting the Poet evermore, 
Diviner utterance doth implore. 

176 



ANNIE R. ANNAN 

hi. 

As clouds along the eastern sky 
Lean out to see the great sun die, 
And turn all crimson where they lie 

With glory that he casts aside — 

So we, by nearness glorified, 

Have watched a white soul, as it died, 

Divest itself of human praise, 
Deplore the guilt of blameless days, 
Bewail the stain of stainless ways. 



IV. 



Oh futile strife that robs of rest, 

And leaves the crowned soul unblessed, 

Since still a better mocks its best ! 

The bitter thought grew sweet in me, 
As though an angel changed its key 
And set its secret music free. 

My Singer, Poet, and Pure Heart, 
Oh grieve not where you sit apart 
Because an ideal mocks your art ; 

Earth's failures do most strongly plead 
For those immortal years whose need 
Has worked in men a common creed. 



177 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

FALL WOOING 

Late wooer, this dead rose of love — 
Since you will have the reason — 

Had heart of flame and fragrance once, 
But now love's out of season ; 

For bee and breeze fell heir to sweets 

You flouted in your treason. 
So pass it by and pluck it not, 

Since love is out of season. 



A NIGHT OF WINDS, A NIGHT OF CLOUDS 

A night of winds, a night of clouds 

That swarm around the silver moon — 
A blindfold moon that's like to swoon 

With a black band across her face ; 
A night of skirmishes and routs, 
Of rampant fears, the airy scouts 

That, drugged with sunshine, sleep by day, 
But with the dusk swarm from their lair, 
Bestride the winds and scour the air ; 

A birth -night of strange revelries. 

The trees by turns show black and white, 
Like clouds in baths of transient light ; 

The shadows mask familiar things. 

Now, swallow, nesting in the eaves, 
This cannot be thy voice that grieves, — 
Now, maple at the window-pane, 

178 



ANNIE R. ANNAN 

In all the music of thy leaves 

Were never heard such words as these 

That weirdly grow articulate: 
"Up, and away, thou little Guest — 
All winged things have left the nest — 

Unhouse thee, soul, and try thy wings/' 

The little guest slips from her house, — 
Undrawn its curtains and its bars, — 
In fantasy below the stars, 

Above the earth, she voyages. 

She sees the Church — a blessed sight, 
Each cranny full of silver light ; 

Now does she flit within the ray 

Of nursery fires, whose fitful gleams 
Fall on small faces bright with dreams 

Now, drifting over fields of snow, 
Her shadow leaves a lighter stain 
Than a white cloud's on summer era in. 



!-' 



She skirts the mystery of the woods; 

But when dawn reddens all the plain. 

She hastens to her home again. 
Both guest and housewife, she renews 

The order of her blithesome days, 

And draws the curtains, mends the blaze. 
With ancient hospitality. 

Another night the voice will call : 
"Empty and still is every nest, 
The moon is drifting to the west, 

179 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

No wind, or wave, or cloud knows rest,— 
Come thou abroad, thou little Guest." 

She will not come at dawn to trim 
The household fire already dead, 
Or draw the curtains that are spread 

Across the windows of her house. 



180 



WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 
WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 

FROM "HIGHLAND RAMBLES " 

But when these frolic matin moods had ebbed 
They sought the landscape that was hung serene 
Before them, a Hesperian scope that clomb 
Northward from champaign unto champaign fair, 
In slow ascension, till the silver haze 
Languished in dreamy distance ; pastoral types 
Of lovely contour, melting line in line, 
Bold angles, winding mazes, gentle curves, 
Mild slopes, basking in the rich dividuous Light, 
Thereon unfolding all her tissues bright, 
Cashmeres and damasks, lustrous tyrians, 
Orange and auburn and deep lazuli. 
And over all were sown with happy art 
The cultured spaces, orchat valleys, groves, 
Green pastures, sinuous silvers, sheets of glass, 
White farmsteads, gleaming steeples, smiling vills ; 
And, intercepted by the jealous cliff, 
Higher, the luminous fragment of a lake, 
Suspended like a crescent ; and beyond, 
The limit and blue-breasted shore of all, 
A ridge of mountain propping skies that sank 
From weight of their own splendor; azure fields 
Wherein the thronging fleeces in full flock 
Pastured at leisure, mimicked underneath 
By loitering shadows browsing up the hills. 

181 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

FROM "HIGHLAND RAMBLES " 

When the good man dies 
• Nature feels the drain ; 
Heights and depths do sympathize, 
Suns and planets wane. 

When the good man dies 

Nations feel the anguish ; 
Thrones are loosened, tumults rise, 

Hearts of heroes languish. 

Who shall take his place? 

None, for none is equal. 
Nature not repeats the grace 

Through her endless sequel. 

But our fates abide, 

Goodly spheres as any. 
Would 'st secure thy circle ride, 

Be but one in many. 



THE BROOK 

Brief the search until I heard him, 

Sweetest truant at his play ; 

Such a soul of laughter stirred him, 

Could not rest by night or day. 

Brief the search until I found him 

Gamboling, crumpling all his bed ; 

Woods and rocks, that loved him, round him, 

182 



WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 

And the brakes twined overhead. 

As I came, away he sped 

On fleet pearly feet of lightning 

Jnst behind a rosy croft; 

Mashing thence with sudden brightening, 

Tossed his baby head aloft, 

And with cries of merriment 

Down the sombre forest went. 

Opulent is childhood's hour; 

"Tis he alone can give with grace, 

And he alone can ask with power. 

To the arch menace of his eye 

And his half-imperious ways 

Old Nature can no thing deny ; 

She grants him all he claims to own ; 

But the dear smiles that sometime light his face, 

Bewitch the grandam to the bone ; 

Straight she unlocks her chest and brings her 

hoard, 
And chooses him for heir of all, and lord. 
And best it suits his bounteous heart and pleasure 
To be royal-lavish in his measure. 
Upon waste and fertile place 
He sows the largess of his grace. 
He, the son of myriad kings, 
He, the heir of countless lands, 
Wide his goodly treasure flings 
To whoso asking stands. 
But for his generous trust in her, 

183 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Nature her wayward worshipper 

With tenfold measure will requite; 

Coins his harms to just and right; 

Reaps from his dear improvidence 

Harvests of large experience ; 

Husbands each squandered farthing of his dower, 

And brings it back, changed to eternal power. 

Along the eastern border gray 

The night holds skirmish with the dawn, 

And that strong star, whose fearless ray 

Closest scouts the marching Day, 

Has slowly from his watch withdrawn, 

And many a far-flung crimson spear 

Quivers in the cloudlet's breast, 

As o'er the margin of the sphere 

Lifts the Morn his haughty crest ; 

And wide and near the lazy land 

Fumbles with slumber's easy band, 

While drowsy sounds in wood and field 

From dreaming throats are faintly pealed. 

Starts the nigh-belated swain, 

As the prying ruddy beam 

Cuts the tendrils of the dream 

That tightly hugs his heavy brain. 

The smoke climbs upward through the thatch, 

The housewife lifts the early latch, 

And standing on the door-sill sees 

The thick dews winking in the trees, 

What time the flapping chanticleer 

184 



WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 

Winds afar his horn of cheer, 

And every bird of blithesome note 

Fingers light his woodland oat ; 

And the herdsman's whistle shrill 

Stirs the laughter of the hill, 

As through the meadowy mists he strides ; 

Issuing from whose purple tides 

Towards the grange the sleepy kine 

Reluctant trail their straggling line, 

Whose burthened udders, as they pass, 

Spill their rich streams on the grass ; 

And swinging light in either hand 

The cedarn pail with well-scoured band, 

The maid hies briskly down the lawn 

With gathered sleeve and skirt updrawn, 

And loose braids 'scaping from her hood, 

Carolling in her matin mood 

Some silly stave too weak to hear 

But for its honest heart of cheer ; 

Since in her breast, as everywhere, 

Is manifold delight to spare. 

Anon the yoke's laborious beam 

Is locked upon the broad-neckci team, 

The farm-lad cracks his wanton thong. 

The huge wain lumbers loud along, 

Where the clustered haycocks steam 

In the morning's simmering beam, 

And striding heart-deep in the math 

The mower lays the dewy swath, 

Or rings with bantering rifle clear 

185 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

A challenge to his stanch compeer. 

And everywhere the human hand 

Reaches for its proper tool ; 

Since those whom Nature puts to school 

Learn the rough eternal rule, 

Who best can work, he shall command. 

The year moves to its sad decline, 

A dull gray mist enfolds the hills, 

The flowers are dead, the thickets pine, 

In other lands the swallow trills ; 

For since they stole his Summer flute 

The moping Pan sits stark and mute; 

The slow hooves of the feeding kine 

Crack the herbage as they pass ; 

The apples glimmer in the grass, 

And woods are yellow, woods are brown, 

The vine about the elm is red, 

Crow and hawk fly up and down, 

But for the wood-thrush, he is dead ; 

The ox forsakes the chilly shadow, 

Only the cricket haunts the meadow. 

The feast is ending, the guests are going, 
In bands or singly they quit the board ; 
The torch is paling, the flutes stop blowing, 
The meat is eaten, the wine is poured. 

Time, the tamer, puts his bit 
In the strong man's mouth ; 

186 



WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 

His hirelings in the saddle sit 
And quell the blood of youth. 
Time, the herdsman, turns his years 
To pasture on his vernal cheek ; 
Ploughman, through his feature steers 
A stealthy share in grooves oblique ; 
Reaper, he with sickle cleaves 
From his eyes their burning sheaves ; 
With flail from his adventurous heart 
He threshes all the bolder part ; 
With fan he winnows from his lip 
The airy laugh, the winged quip. 
Upon his brow the quill of care 
Begins to write a sober page, 
And through its raven warp his hair 
Admits the hoary woof of age. 

The rumble of the world's loud course 

Ebbs from his inattentive ear, 

The wine of youth has spent its force 

And leaves his spirit clear. 

Now solemn themes his thought employ, 

He sits on Nature's temple-stair, 

Walks by immortal founts of joy 

And haunts the tripod of sweet prayer. 

Forebodings bright to him are given, 

His faith burns like a sun, 

And up the shining porch of heaven 

His hopes like couriers run. 

Upon his lips ripe Wisdom lays 

Her purple clusters forth, 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

His words are fragrant with sweet praise 
And glad with holy mirth ; 
And life's tumultuous dithyramb 
Changes to an eternal psalm. 



LAW 

What knightly port of man draws near, 

What hero carved from the antique, 
What child of battle and the spear ? 

Full-armed he rides by lawn and creek, 
Fenced, breast and thigh, in glorious scale, 

The visor dark on brow and cheek. 
creature fashioned to prevail, 

What errand, what ideal quest, 
What sainted shrine, what holy grael ? 

Ever his lance is poised in rest, 
Ever his glances search afield. 

Ever before his pillared breast 
The fulgent orbit of his shield 

Makes splendor, like a captive sun ; 
And on it, graved in ample field, 

The letters of his motto run, 
" The perfect Law." dauntless heart ! 
Proud goal forever never won ! 

Behold from brake and glen they start, 
All shapes that bear the name of foe ; 

Whatever pierces with the dart, 
Whatever bends afar the bow ; 

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WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 

And monsters of the middle air 

Wheel o'er his march in circle slow, 
Or sweep on thunder-plumes to tear. 

But nothing prospers to his harm ; 
Midway they pause, stung with despair. 

For something fateful in his arm, 
Something of terror on his plume 

Melts with the breath of mad alarm 
Their order, and completes their doom. 

Like mist they drift in wracks of flight, 
Swift blasts confound, strange fires consume. 

Mayhap he stirs himself for fight 
To wipe some dark plague from the earth ; 

AVho sees him strike, would guess the might 
Of every god in heaven went forth. 

His broadening purpose knows no bar ; 
A sleepless warrior from his birth, 

From bourn to sliding bourn afar 
He rides, of lawless enmity 

The mock and mark by sun or star. 
He, without sorrow, without glee, 

And mingling not with love or hate, 
Knows one strong word, Necessity. 

Sure hands of a conclusive Fate 
Work out to men through sword and lance, 

Through what they shatter, what create. 
Not short nor over nor askance 

The pith of his endeavor falls ; 
No slip, no halt ; his steps advance 

Through what seduces, what appalls ; 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Clear in the counsel of his mind, 

He works his will, whate'er befalls. 
Him yield full praise; ye will not find 

His equal by the land or sea, 
And yet a greater than his kind, 

It is my dream, will come to me, 

Larger in bearing and degree, 

And of diviner race than he. 



LOVE 

The best among the sons of men, 

God led up hither for a grace ; 
Such luck, I guess, comes not again. 

Unknown his name, for our two ways 
Had never crossed since time began, 

Our eyes not mixed their kindred rays. 
Yet had I spoken with this man 

Ere the blue firmament was spun, 
Or the first star his circuit ran. • 

No casque nor cuirass on him shone, 
Nor guise of any martial thing ; 

His foe breathed not beneath the sun. 
All natures gave him welcoming, 

Yea, warring kings ungirt their ire 
To fetch him a love-offering. 

The omens writ in signs of fire, 
The thunders of an angry law, 

The startings of half-crushed desire 

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WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 

Raged far below him ; for he saw 

Beyond the knitted brows of night, 
Where meaner spirits fail for awe, 

That ocean of serenest light ; 
So was he gladdened as a child 

That gambols in its mother's sight. 
The sweetness of his mien beguiled 

All things to yield him of their best ; 
From hideous forms, from brute and wild 

He drew by charms the holiest, 
The fairest. Fate's most rude intent 

Fell like a rose upon his breast. 
Ah ! unto him the gods had lent 

Power so sure, repose so even, 
He never sighed nor toiled nor bent. 

Albeit all he asked was given, 
No sign he made, he shaped no vow, 

Nor seemed at all to crave of Heaven. 
But as the plume above the brow 

Of some divinely tempered knight 
Cheerily dances whether he g-o 

To mix with pastime or with fight, 
His deed, that stayed a lapsing race 

And sowed the dreary wastes with light, 
Seemed a slight symbol of his grace, 

Hovered about him airily, 
And could not flatter from his face 

The lofty dear simplicity ; 
Yet all his speech was tuned thereby 

Unto a deeper melody, 



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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And all the glances of his eye 

Lined with a finer majesty. 
Once more, yet once before I die, 

Ye gracious years, lead him to me 
Or me to him, that Life may know 

The grandeur of her ministry ; 
Till her frore fountains break and flow 
Down from these polar crests of snow 
To the warm Eden spread below. 



OPEN HOUSE 

Hold open house; dwell not apart; 

Spread forth a liberal board, and keep 
A world-wide welcome in the heart. 

To entertain the gods is cheap ; 
They come in dusty rags, and crave 

A little bread, a little sleep. 

Make haste, arise, give all } r ou have ; 

The beggar's staff to Mercury's rod 
Will change, the wrinkles of the knave 

To the bright features of a god, 
And into wings of fire the shoes 

With which his homely feet are shod. 

Borne upon every wind, the Muse 
Beats at the casements of the bard 

With freightage of melodious news ; 
But all is dark ; he keepeth guard ; 

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WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 

She cannot find a chink or rent ; 
To bless the overwise is hard. 

The pallid prisoner, worn and bent, 

Through scrolls of magic peeps and pores, 

Handling with a sublime intent 
Forgotten spells ; lo, at his doors 

The spirit-feet of Ariel wait 

Whom he laboriously implores. 

Fling wide, fool, the grate, the gate, 
The couriers knock, the daemons throng, 

Accept, accept the bounteous fate. 
Nay, rather let me suffer wrong 

Than slight the meanest elve that brings 
The symbol and the soul of Song. 

Bear hence the mighty harp that flings 

The epic thunder from its strings, 

For I will chant rejected things. 



THE STRAYS 

The budding maid, not half a flower, 

When first the warbling days of June 
Build nests about the household bower, 

Loves to unlatch her little shoon 
And wade and paddle in the grass 

From matin to the glare of noon. 
The tickled soles in frolic pass 

Their wonted range ; she slips along 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

From mead to mead, a truant lass. 

Gliding, she purls, a. brook of song, 
Tripping, she chirrs, a happy dove, 

Dancing, she shouts, a bacchante strong. 
Crowfoot and buttercup for love 

She gathers, but the fingers fair, 
Though bursting, cannot pluck enough. 

She thrusts them, blithesome, in her hair 
Longwise and crosswise, to her taste, 

And since her hands have yet to spare, 
She trims her bosom and her waist ; 

Then looping up in graceful fold 
Her span of apron, fills in haste 

Its fairy hollow with the gold, 
And, gazing sadly round her, sighs, 

Nigh weeps, because it will not hold 
All the bright meadows in her eyes. 

Anon she smiles, in thought to please 
Her mother with a dear surprise, 

And sitting, plaits upon her knees 
A chaplet ; round it throng to sip 

A choir of splendor-drunken bees. 
Right homeward then with trill and skip 

She gambols, dangling from her arm 
The sweet grace of her workmanship ; 

And, entering, springs with kisses warm, 
And clambering to the mother's breast 

About her temples girds the charm ; 
Who lightly chides the foolish quest, 

The truant prank, the hoiden play, 

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WILLIAM B. WRIGHT 

But sits for secret gladness dressed 

In those poor weeds the summer's day. 
darling maid !— And shall I chide 

The wayward muse, the elfin stray 
That brings from brook-marge and hill-side 

Flower-foam and waifs of woodland rhyme? 
Not I : be not the grace denied 

To wanton in her honeyed prime, 
If faintest foretaste but abide 

Of sober thought in riper time. 



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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



ANNA KATHARINE GREEN 

(Mrs. Charles Rohlfs.) 

RISIFI'S DAUGHTER 

Extracts. 

Zeno. 

Most fair ; her innocent face 
Hath that sweet look which comes from gentle 

thoughts, 
And in the glance of her large, lucent eye 
A witchery dwells that many a princely dame 
Would give her ancient pedigree to add 
Unto her store of charms. you will love her 
When you shall see her. 

Giovanni. 

Think you so, good Zeno? 
A heart like mine springs not at bliss so lightly. 
If kindness starts unbidden in my breast 
At touch of her soft spirit, it is all 
My anxious soul dare hope. 

Ah, what is life ! 
'Tis but a passing touch upon the world; 
A print upon the beaches of the earth 
Next flowing wave will wash away ; a mark 
That something passed ; a shadow on a wall, 
While looking for the substance, shade departs ; 
A drop from the vast spirit-cloud of God 
That rounds upon a stock, a stone, a leaf, 
A moment, then exhales again to God. 

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ANNA KATHARINE GREEN 

Oh, I had hoped the heavens had turned the scale 
Against that hard alternative. But fate 
Wills not to man both fame and happiness ; 
He who would rest his daring foot on heights 
So single and so lofty, ev'n must learn 
To tread his own heart down. 

No, no, not proud, I was but thinking, father, 
How base a thing it is for one who hoped 
To walk above all earthly littleness, 
To lead a trusting woman to the altar 
Just for the gold she brings. 

It is music, boy, 
Long known to these high walls. Let it sing on, 
A past like ours commands the present's patience. 

Those who have lost their mothers unbetimes, 
Oft show these sad lines in their faces, signior ; 
'Tis nature's mark that life's most precious boon 
Hath somehow missed them. 

Lady, I would not startle your sweet soul 

Into a sudden passion. Not the wind 

But the soft sunshine best constrains the bud 

To ope its delicate leaves. Of all the words 

Of gentle courtesy and deep regard 

With which I come full laden to your side, 

I will but proffer one. Accept this, dear, 

The choicest of my store, the rose of speech, 

The sweet, I love you, which has been the gem 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Of every language since the first fond hour 

That woman's smile became a good man's heaven. 



SUNRISE FROM THE MOUNTAINS 

Hung thick with jets of burning gold, the sky 
Crowns with its glorious dome the sleeping earth, 
Illuminating hill and vale. Q'erhead, 
The nebulous splendor of the milky way 
Stretches afar; while, crowding up the heavens, 
The planets worship 'fore the throne of God, 
Casting their crowns of gold beneath His feet. 
It is a scene refulgent ! and the very stars 
Tremble above, as though the voice divine 
Reverberated through the dread expanse. 
But soft ! a change ! 
A timid creeping up of gray in east — 
A loss of stars on the horizon's verge — 
Gray fades to pearl and spreads up zenith ward, 
The while a wind runs low from hill to hill, 
As if to stir the birds awake, rouse up 
The nodding trees, and draw off silence like 
A garment from the drowsy earth. The heavens 
Are full of points of light that go and come 
And go, and leave a tender ashy sky. 
The pearl has pushed its way to north and south, 
Save where a line spun 'tween two peaks at east, 
Gleams like a cobweb silvered by the sun. 
It grows — a gilded cable binding hill 
To hill ! It widens to a dazzling belt 

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ANNA KATHARINE GREEN 

Half circling earth, then stretches np on high — 

A golden cloth laid down 'fore kingly feet. 

Thus spreads the light upon the heavens above, 

While earth hails each advancing step, and lifts 

Clear into view her rich empurpled hills, 

To keep at even beauty with the sky. 

The neutral tints are deeply saffroned now ; 

In streaks, auroral beams of colored light 

Shoot up and play about the long straight clouds 

And flood the earth in seas of crimson. Ah, 

A thrill of light in serpentine, quick waves, 

A stooping of the eager clouds, and lo, 

Majestic, lordly, blinding bright, the sun 

Spans the horizon with its rim of fire ! 



THROUGH THE TREES 

If I had known whose face I'd see 
Above the hedge, beside the rose ; 

If I had known whose voice I'd hear 

Make music where the wind-flower blows,- 
I had not come, I had not come. 

If I had known his deep "I love" 
Could make her face so fair to see ; 

If I had known her shy "And I" 

Could make him stoop so tenderly, — 
I had not come, I had not come. 

But what knew I ? the summer breeze 
Stopped not to cry "Beware ! beware ! " 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The vine-wreaths drooping from the trees 

Caught not my sleeve with soft "Take care!" 
And so I came, and so I came. 

The roses that his hands have plucked, 

Are sweet to me, are death to me ; 
Between them, as through living flames 

I pass, I clutch them, crush them, see! 

The bloom for her, the thorn for me. 

The brooks leap up with many a song — 
I once could sing, like them could sing ; 

They fall ; 'tis like a sigh among 
A world of joy and blossoming; — 
Why did I come? Why did I come? 

The blue sky burns like altar fires — 
How sweet her eyes beneath her hair ! 

The green earth lights its fragrant pyres ; 
The wild birds rise and flush the air ; 
God looks and smiles, earth is so fair. 

But ah ! 'twixt me and yon bright heaven, 
Two bended heads pass darkling by ; 

And loud above the bird and brook 
I hear a low "I love," "And I" — 
And hide my face. Ah, God! Why? Why? 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

And now soft night hath ta'en her seat on high, 
Outbreathing balmy peace o'er all the land ; 
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ANNA KATHARINE GREEN 

Silent in sleep the dimpled meadows lie 

Like tired children soothed by mother's hand. 
Throughout the valley hums the zephyr bland, 

Charming the roses from their passionate dreams, 

To hear the wild and melancholy streams 
Pulse to the waving of its mystic wand ; 

While large and low leans down the mellow 
moon, 

Whose whitely blazing urn doth make a silver 
noon. 

But hark ! what heavenly sound is this that now 

Steals like a dream adown the fragrant vale, 
Or like a thought across a maiden's brow, 

That brings a lambent flush upon the pale ? 

It is the heart-song of the nightingale, 
Which yearns forever upward in a mist 
Of subtle sadness, clouding all who list, 

With softened shadows of her sacred ail ; 
And now so purely fills the silence clear, 
Great Nature seems to hush her beating heart to 
hear. 



PREMONITIONS 

The sweetest hour in all Love's wondrous story, 
When Hope first whispers of the coining glory. 

A sudden strange unfolding 

In the cheerful noontide glare 

A sudden passionate heaving 
In the bosom of the air. 
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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The sense of something coming, 

Mysterious and dread, 
The lightning for its crowning, 

The thunder for its tread. 

A whisper in the breezes 

One has not heard before ; 
A longing in the billow, 

A yearning in the shore. 

A bubbling up of life 

From every wayside thing ; 

A meaning in the dip 

Of even a swallow's wing. 

A fear as if the morrow 

Would ope some hidden portal ; 

A joy as if the feet 

Stood at the gate immortal. 

An angel in the pathway 

To every common goal, 
A widening of the outlook 

That opens on the soul. 

A sound of song at midnight, 

A mist of dreams at noon ; 
A tear upon the eyelash, 

The lips' smile might impugn. 

A coming back of childhood 

When morning suns are bright, 

To find yourself a woman 
Upon your knees at night. 

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RT. REV. A. CLEVELAND COXE 



RT. REV. A. CLEVELAND COXE 

(18G5— 18%) 

TO MY FATHER 

From "Advent, a Mystery." 

Father, as he of old who reaped the field, 

The first young sheaves to Him did dedicate 

Whose bounty gave whate'er the glebe did yield, 
Whose smile the pleasant harvest might create— 
So I to thee these numbers consecrate, 

Thou who didst lead to Silo's pearly spring ; 
And if of hours well saved from revels late 

And youthful riot, I these fruits do bring, 

Accept my early vow, nor frown on what I sing. 

(1837) 



A GROWING KINGDOM 

Oh, where are kings and empires now, 
Of old that went and came? 

But, Lord, Thy church is praying yet, 
A thousand years the same. 

We mark her goodly battlements, 
And her foundations strong: 

We hear within the solemn voice 
Of her unending song. 

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POETS AND POETKY OF BUFFALO 

For not like kingdoms of the world 

Thy holy church, God ! 
Though earthquake shocks are threatening her, 

And tempests are abroad ; — 

Unshaken as eternal hills, 

Immovable she stands, 
A mountain that shall fill the earth, 

A house not made by hands. 



THE HEARTS SONG 

In the silent midnight watches, 

List — thy bosom-door! 
How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, 

Knocketh evermore ! 

Say not 'tis thy pulses beating ; 

'Tis thy heart of sin ; 
'Tis thy Saviour knocks and crieth, 

Rise, and let me in ! 

Death comes down with reckless footstep 

To the hall and hut. 
Think you Death will stand a-knocking 

Where the door is shut? 

Jesus waiteth — waiteth — waiteth ; 

But thy door is fast ! 
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth ; 

Death breaks in at last. 

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RT. REV. A. CLEVELAND COXE 

Then 'tis thine to stand— entreating 

Christ to let thee in ; 
At the gate of heaven beating, 

Wailing for thy sin. 

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin, 

Hast thou then forgot 
Jesus waited long to know thee 

But he knows thee not! 



WATCHWORDS 

We are living, we are dwelling 
In a grand and awful time ; 

In an age, on ages telling, 
To be living, is sublime. 

Hark ! the waking up of nations, 
Gog and Magog to the fray, 

Hark ! what soundeth is Creation's 
Groaning for its latter day. 

Will ye play, then, will ye dally 

With your music, with your wine? 

Up ! it is Jehovah's rally ! 

God's own arm hath need of thine. 

Hark ! the onset ! will ye fold your 
Faith-clad arms in lazy lock ? 

Up, oh up, thou drowsy soldier ! 
Worlds are charging to the shock. 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Worlds are charging, heaven beholding ! 

Thou hast but an hour to fight ; 
Now, the blazoned cross unfolding, 

On, right onward for the right ! 

What! still hug thy dreamy slumbers? 

'Tis no time for idling play, 
Wreaths, and dance and poet-numbers ; 

Flout them ! we must work to-day ! 

Fear not! spurn the worldling's laughter; 

Thine ambition trample thou ! 
Thou shalt find a long Hereafter 

To be more than tempts thee now. 

On ! let all the soul within you 
For the truth's sake go abroad ! 

Strike ! let every nerve and sinew 
Tell on ages, tell for God ! 



IONA 

A Memorial of St. Columba. 

We gazed on Corryvrekin's whirl, 

We sailed by Jura's shore, 
Where sang of old the mermaid-girl 

Whose shell is heard no more; 
We came to Fingal's pillared cave, 

That minster in the sea, 
And sang — while clapped its hands the wave, 

And worshipped even as we. 

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RT. REV. A. CLEVELAND COXE 

But when at fair Iona's bound 

We leaped upon its soil, 
I felt indeed 'twas holy ground, — 

Too holy for such spoil ; 
For spoilers came, in evil day, 

Where once to Christ they prayed ; 
Alas! His Body — ta'en away, 

We know not where 'twas laid. 

We strode above those ancient graves, 

We worshipped by that Cross, 
And where their snow-white manes the waves 

Like troops of chargers toss, 
We gazed upon the distant scene, 

And thought how Columb came 
To kindle here the Gospel's sheen, 

And preach the Saviour's name. 

Came where the rude marauding clan 

Enforced him to an isle ; 
Came but to bless and not to ban, 

To make the desert smile. 
He made his island church a gem 

That sparkled in the night, 
Or like that Star of Bethlehem, 

That bathes the world with light. 

But look ! this isle that gems the deep — 

One glance may all behold — 
This was the shelter of his sheep, 

This was Columba's fold. 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Bishops were gold in clays of yore, 

For golden was their good, 
But in their pastoral hands they bore 

A shepherd's staff of wood. 

Here elders and his deacons due 
'Neath one blest roof they dwelt, 

And, ere the bird of dawning crew, 
They rose to pray — and knelt; 

Here, watching through the darker hours, 
Vigil and fast they kept, 

Like those, once hailed by heavenly powers, 
While Herod drowsed and slept. 

Thus gleaming like a pharos forth 

To shed of Truth the flame, 
A Patmos of the frozen North 

Iona's isle became. 
The isles that waited for God's Law 

Mid all the highlands round, 
That beacon as it blazed, they saw, 

They sought the Light and found. 

It shone upon those headlands hoar 

That crest thy coasts, Argyle ; 
To watchers far as Mona's shore, 

It seemed a burning pile ; 
To peasants' cots and fishers' skiffs 

It brightened lands and seas ; 
From Solway to Edina's cliffs, 

And southward to the Tees. 

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RT. REV. A. CLEVELAND COXE 

Nay more! for when, that day of bliss, 

1 sought Columba's bay, 
Came one, as from the wilderness, 

A thousand leagues away ; 
A bishop of Columba's kin, 

As primitive as he, 
Knelt, pilgrim-like, these walls within, 

The saint of Tennessee. 

Thrilled as with rapture strange and wild, 

I saw him worship there ; 
And Otey, like a little child, 

Outpoured his soul in prayer. 
For oh ! to him came thoughts, I ween, 

Of one who crossed the seas, 
And brought from distant Aberdeen 

Gifts of the old Culdees. 

Great God, how marvellous the flame 

A little spark may light ! 
What here was kindled first — the same 

Makes far Atlantis bright : 
Not Scotia's clans, nor Umbria's son 

Alone that beacon blest, 
It shines to-day o'er Oregon 

And glorifies our West. 

Columbia from Columba claims 
More than great Colon brought, 

And long entwined those twins of names 
Shall waken grateful thought ; 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And where the Cross is borne afar 

To California's shore, 
Columba's memory like a star 

Shall brighten evermore. 



I KNOW — I KNOW WHERE THE GREEN LEAVES GROW 

Extracts from Carol. 

My Beloved is gone down into His garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in 
the gardens and to gather lilies.— Canticles. 

I know — I know where the green leaves grow, 

When the woods without are bare ; 
Where a sweet perfume of the woodland's bloom 

Is afloat on the winter air ! 
When tempest strong hath howled along, 

With his war-whoop wild and loud, 
Till the broad ribs broke of the forest oak, 

And his crown of glory bowed ; 
I know — I know where the green leaves grow, 

Though the groves without are bare, 
Where the branches nod of the trees of God, 

And the wild vines flourish fair. 

I know — I know where blossoms blow 

The earliest of the year ; 
Where the passion-flower, with a mystic power, 

Its thorny crown doth rear ; 
Where crocus breathes and fragrant wreaths 

Like a censer fill the gale ; 
Where cow-slips burst to beauty first, 

And the lily of the vale ; 
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RT. REV. A. CLEVELAND COXE 

And snow-drops white and pansies bright 

As Joseph's colored vest; 
And laurel-tod from the woods of God, 

Where the wild-bird builds her nest. 

I know — I know where the waters flow 

In a marble font and nook, 
When the frosty sprite in his strange delight 

Hath fettered the brawling brook, 
When the dancing stream, with its broken gleam, 

Is locked in its rocky bed ; 
And the sing-song fret of the rivulet 

Is hush as the melted lead ; 
Oh, then I know where the waters flow 

As fresh as the spring-time flood, 
When the spongy sod of the fields of God 

And the hedges are all in bud. 

I know — I know no place below, 

Like the home I fear and love ; 
Like the stilly spot where the world is not 

But the nest of the Holy Dove. 
For there broods He mid every tree 

That grows at the Christmas-tide, 
And there, all year, o'er the font so clear, 

His hovering wings abide! 
And so, I know no place below 

So meet for the bard's true lay, 
As the alleys broad of the Church of God, 

Where Nature is green for aye. 

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ARTHUR W. AUSTIN 

PALLAS ON HELICON 

From aiding Perseus in the war, 

Through dangers braved and triumphs won, 
Pallas with grandeur greater far 

Than mortal pomp hath ever known — 
Her spear-point gleaming like a star — 

Came to the mount of Helicon. 

With glory meet, and armed complete, 
What went she up the mount to see ? 

Not Phoebus yoke his chargers fleet, 
And rising, gild the laughing sea, — 

But smiling sweet she came to greet 
The daughters of Mnemosyne. 

The sacred sister deities 

Who thrill and fire each minstrel's breast, 
And yield their own sublimest prize 

Confirmed by Time's supreme attest ! 
To these the goddess of the wise 

With greeting came, a worthy guest. 

Past Oread haunts, where forms of grace 

Gleam fairy -like, and disappear ; 
Past groves, where lovers of the chase 

Might well employ the hunting-spear — 
Up to the Muses' dwelling-place 

Came she whom Athens held so dear. 
212 



ARTHUR W. AUSTIN 

Among - their bowers a wondrous rill 
Gave forth low-lisping melodies ; 

When first with eager, restless will 
Winged Pegasus explored the skies, 

Descending on the sacred hill, 

Beneath his hoofs these waters rise. 

Beside the spring Athene stood, 

And brighter hues her glories take, 

While all the queenly sisterhood 
Before her due obeisance make ; 

A welcome then, in reverent mood, 
The Muse of stars, Urania, spake. 

Not lacking cheer, nor mutely cold, 

Remained the bright, illustrious throng, 

But radiant with Apollo's gold, 

High honors to their guest prolong, 

And all for her, with power untold, 

Revealed the matchless charm of song. 

To render vain earth's sweetest strain, 
Thalia's voice might well aspire, 

That full accordance could maintain 
With proud Euterpe's notes of fire, 

And lofty Clio's calm refrain, 

And hers who swayed the tragic lyre. 

Then one, the ehiefest, most divine, 
Thrilled on her harp of epic tone, 

And sang, till o'er the sun's decline, 
Hesper, the faithful herald, shone ; — 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Thus Pallas met the tuneful nine 
Upon the mount of Helicon. 

0, sacred ones, there tarry ye ! 

Nor may the storm-clouds o'er ye roll ; 
But throned forever may ye be 

On that supreme ideal goal, — 
There hold the unswerving fealty 

And love of every poet-soul ! 



SCIENCE AND POETRY 

Inscribed to Mr. David Gray after hearing his lecture on the subject. 

The Muse, her future life and ministry ; 

This was the argument, and w r ell he taught — 
In glowing speech expressing noble thought — 

The true conditions of the harmony, 

Which is not yet, but which shall surely be 
By Song and Science mutually sought ; 
Nor sought in vain, but found, and richly fraught 
With strength to both, and glorious augury. 

Then shall the halo of the deathless Muse 
Make Science beautiful, its triumphs grand, 
Illume with hues she only can command ; 

This is the faith he taught, and bade us choose ; 
A faith which shines now like the lonely light 
Set in the shrine at night, on desolate ^Etna's 
height ! 

214 



ARTHUR W. AUSTIN 

THE TRIUMPH OF LIGHT 

Pan-American Exposition, 1901. 
"When a great illumination surprises a festal night."— Brouming. 

Created by Niagara's surge and roll, 

This mystic force, this silent, radiant power, 

Encircles dome and spire, scales the high tower, 

And leaps in triumph to its utmost goal. 

So seeming free, yet held in sure control, 

It pours down richest rays in shower on shower, 

And to some far-off dream-realm charms the soul, 

Above the earth, beyond the passing hour. 

By skill of artist, sculptor, architect, 

Our magic City of the Rainbow stands, 

In beauty day and night without defect. 

We praise them all, with grateful pride requite 

The minds that planned, the thaumaturgic hands 

That wrought this lofty, lovely marvel of light ! 



IF MUSIC AND SWEET POETRY AGREE 

I rejoice, 0, beloved of my heart, 

That you are a music-lover, 
Nor fail in the glorious art 

New beauties and charms to discover ; 
For thus may our spirits combine 

In the love of the beautiful truly, — 
I, loving the rhythmical line, 

You, the bar of sweet music as duly ; 

215 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

I, loving the poet's high song, 

You, a song set to musical numbers ; 

I, the thoughts that to poets belong, 

You, the thought music wakes from its slumbers. 

Yes, with each loving each, we remain 

True lovers of infinite beauty ; 
That sonnet of Shakespeare makes plain 

The rule of our faith and our duty ; 
For Music and Poetry sweet, 

Said the Master, are sister and brother ; 
His words as our creed are most meet, 

You loving the one, I the other. 



TO BISHOP COXE 

On the Twentieth Anniversary of his Episcopate. 

" Honor and reverence, and the good repute, 
That follows faithful service as its fruit, 
Be unto him whom we to-day salute." 

Servant of God, who through a score of years, 
Thy great commission worthily didst fill, 
With steadfast zeal to do thy Master's will, 

How grand to-day thy holy work appears ! 

And we rejoice that still thy presence cheers 

And guides thy flock, and that we hear thee still, 
Commending what is good, reproving ill, 

With God's own truth dispelling doubts and fears! 

216 



ARTHUR W. AUSTIN 

Long may it be before thy labors end ; 

Long may thy voice, invoking heavenly grace, 
Be heard with reverence in the sacred place ; 
And to the last, our father, teacher, friend, — 
Keep thou the love thy people gladly own, 
Till God shall bid thee lay thy staff and burden 
down! 

Buffalo, January 3, 1885. 



DIE TKAUMEKEI 

The soul of Schumann, wandering in a maze 
Of dreamful reverie, made music so 
Express emotions deep which all may know, 
When memory leads the mind through devious 

ways 
Of joy or grief, and scenes of other days — 
Strange, varied pictures of the long ago, — 
Glide into view, now rapidly, now slow, 
While each a separate influence conveys. 
This was my thought when first my listening soul 
Heard with delight the "TraumereiV tender 

strain, 
And still its wondrous melodies remain, 
Holding a sure, unchangeable control. 
The Traumerei ! tone-picture of a dream ! 
Drawn with a skill that glorifies the theme! 



217 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



MARY E. BURTIS 



THANK GOD 

Thank God ! The baby Jesus went to sleep 

On Mary's breast, 
And when she sang her first faint lullaby 
The morning stars hung silent in the sky, 
And heaven was still, and angels stooped to hear 
Her sweet voice, singing low and clear 

Her babe to rest. 

Thank God ! The tired Christ found repose 

As Martha's guest ; 
Outside the angels stood with folded wing, 
While Mary did their ministering ; 
Her soft cool fingers eased the pain 
Of wearied heart and throbbing brain, 

And gave Him rest. 

Thank God ! Who gavest to human love 

Such might divine, 
Even as a little child's caresses 
The care-worn father soothes and blesses, 
So her weak woman's love had power 
In that cool, quiet, twilight hour, 

To rank with Thine. 

218 



MARY E. BURTIS 

Oh ! happy women of that olden time 

And happy we — 
Still from pathetic baby eyes 
The Christ-child looks with strange surprise, 
And for every sick, tired soul we cheer 
Still ring the bells of God out clear, 

" Ye do it unto me." 



GOOD NIGHT 

Good night, beloved, in thy low, cold bed 

Sleep soft and sweet ; 
God's strongest angel standeth at its head, 
His promises are planted at its feet. 

Good night, beloved, there's no need to say 

God keep thee, any more; 
He's keeping thee until the dawning day 
Shall wake us both on the eternal shore. 

Good night, beloved, in God's love and thine 

My heart rests sure ; 
All living love may change, or know decline, 
But like His mercy, thine shall aye endure. 



219 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



LINDA DeK. FULTON 

SONG OF FREEDOM 

Buffalo Chapter Daughters of the American Revolution. 

Children of a western land, far from the pomp 

of court or king, 
Inheritors of Freedom, let shouts on all sides ring! 

Protect and guard thy country's fate, 

And vigil keep o'er open gate. 

Defend this heritage of thine, won by the blood of 
gallant sires, 

From subtle foe without, or strife's internal fires. 
Protect and guard that banner bright, 
With Freemen's sword and Freemen's might. 

Until from north to distant south, from eastern 

shore to western plain, 
From every grateful heart shall swell the glad 
refrain, 
Protect and guard from age to age 
With Freemen's sword thine heritage. 

Then when this earthly race is run, and Heaven 

disclosed to eager view, 
The guerdon bravely won by loyal hearts and true, 

Protect and keep us safe with Thee, 

Lord, throughout eternity. 

220 



LINDA DeK. FULTON 

PERHAPS 

Most men dread death, that dark, mysterious 
thing 
We know full well must come to one and all, 
And though the day seems distant, still we cling 
To life, and shun the mention of the bier and 
pall. 

And yet, perhaps, if we could lift the veil 

That screens our eyes from visions sweet and 
fair, 
Our daily task would heavy seem, and we would 
fail 
To fight life's battles, so fain would we be there. 

This may be why the future life is hid 

From mortal eyes, for we are needed here. 

Our duties lie around us, and amid 

This turmoil, we must do our best, — nor fear. 



221 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



JOSIAH LETCHWORTH 



THE NEW COMMAND 

This new command I give to you, 
Henceforth, "love one another," 

Kind thoughts, good will, to all are due- 
Esteem each man your brother. 

The ever chilling blast of strife 
Stamps care on human faces, 

But gentleness, like words of life, 
Distils its own sweet graces. 

And gifts of grace are hard to win, 
Nor come they for the asking — 

So easy are the paths of sin, 
So manifold their masking. 

We need to rest ourselves on Him 

Who knows no wrong nor weakness, 

Wliose watchful eyes grow never dim, 
Whose face is love and meekness. 

Forever sitting at His feet, 

We learn His wondrous teaching — 
His ever gracious words we greet, 

And bow in love beseeching. 
222 



JOSIAH LETCHWORTH 

GLEN IRIS 

Nature here with silent musings 
Fills my inmost spirit's need, 

Draws me from my self-accusings, 
Nerves me on to nobler deed. 

By her charm at first she won me — 
Who can half her wonders tell ? — 

Won me by her mystic beauty, 
By her soothing sylvan spell. 

Golden sunsets, treasures priceless, 
Perfumes from earth's altars blown, 

Was there ever king or princess 

Unto whom such wealth was shown ? 

Here hath God Himself engraven 
Words of peace that still our fears ; 

And within this circling haven 

Breathes "the music of the spheres." 

0, thou vale of chastened beauty, 
Safe retreat from worldly care ! 

Where so oft inspired to duty, 

I have breathed thy fragrant air ; — 

In thy midst, fair Creation ! 

Soul entranced and fancy wild, 
Here in silent meditation 

Would I seat myself, a child. 



223 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



M. J. KITTINGER 



OUT IN THE CIRCLE 

Anna, and May, and Fannie, 
Oat in "The Circle" at play, 

Watching the bees on the clover, 
And as restless and busy as they. 

Gathering lap-fulls of posies, 

Only to scatter them there, 
Just hear the peals of their laughter 

Filling; the clear summer air ! 

Could we but paint them from nature, 
With faces unclouded and true, 

Fannie and Anna with black eyes, 
And May alone with blue ; 

How we would value the picture, 
Just as they look to us now, 

Two standing out in the sunshine, 
One with the shade on her brow. 

If we could look o'er their future 

We would see shadows and tears, — 

Joy, full of music and laughter — 

Change, with the swift passing years. 

224 



M. J. KITTINGER 

But let them play on in the sunshine, 
The shadow will come by and by. 

Take not a chord from the music, 
Nor dim the light in the eye. 

Anna and May and Fannie, 
Out in " The Circle " to-day, 

Now watching- the birds in the tree-tops, 
And as free from care as they. 



225 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 
JAMES W. BARKER 

KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY 

Two brown heads with tossing curls, 
Red lips shutting over pearls, 
Bare feet white and wet with dew, 
Two eyes black and two eyes blue, 
Little boy and girl were the}* — 
Katie Lee and Willie Grey. 

They were standing where a brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks 
Of green willows fringed the banks ; 
Half in thought and half in play, 
Katie Lee and Willie Grey. 

They had cheeks like cherries red, 
He was taller — most a head; 
She, with arms like Avreaths of snow, 
Swung a basket to and fro, 
As she loitered, half in play, 
Chattering to Willie Grey. 

"Pretty Katie," Willie said, 

And there came a dash of red 

Through the brownness of his cheek, 
" Boys are strong and girls are weak, 

And I'll carry, so I will, 

Katie's basket up the hill." 

226 



JAMES W. BARKER 

Katie answered in a laugh, 
"Yon shall carry only half" ; 

And then, tossing back her curls, 
"Boys are weak as well as girls." 

Do yon think that Katie guessed 

Half the wisdom she expressed ? 

Men are only boys grown tall, 
Hearts don't change mnch after all, 
And when, long years from that day, 
Katie Lee and Willie Grey 
Stood again beside the brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 

Is it strange that Willie said, 
While again a dash of red 
Crossed the brownness of his cheek, 
" I am strong, but you are weak, 
Life is but a slippery steep, 
Hung with shadows cold and deep ! 

"Will you trust me, Katie dear? 
Walk beside me without fear? 
May I carry, if I will, 
All your burdens up the hill? " 
And she answered with a laugh, 

"No — but you may carry half." 

Close beside the little brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Washing with its silver hands, 
Late and early at the sands, 

227 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Is a cottage, where, to-day, 
Katie lives with Willie Grey. 

In the porch she sits, and lo ! 
Swings a basket to and fro, 
Vastly different from the one 
That she swung in years agone — 
This is long, and deep, and wide, 
And has rockers at its side! 



228 



JOSEPH O'CONNOR 



JOSEPH O'CONNOR 

THE LAST OF HIS RACE 

Thot t <;ii many a friend of mine be gone, 

And squandered many a pleasure, 
This world seems fair to look upon 

And rich with varied treasure: 
There's honey's scent, and taste of wine, 

And landscape tinted mellow ; 
There's many a summer blossom fine, 

And fruit of autumn yellow. 

For youth's sweet sake, I trust that all 

Old beauties round us cluster; 
For me the rose leaves daily fall, 

And glories lose their lustre. 
I take no joy in deed or dream, 

Nor care for night or morrow : 
But like a lily on its stream 

My heart rocks in its sorrow. 

I've gaily rode through wheaten fields 

Of amber stem and tassel; 
I've watched the sheen of ordered shields; 

Fve spent long nights in wassail ; 
I've felt the thrill in herald's calls 

And in the ring of lances ; 
And harpers, singing in old halls, 

Have wrapt me into trances ; 

229 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

I've seen the palm tree wave and wail 

Within a crumbled palace, 
And ivy over altars trail 

That shrined the Holy Chalice; 
I've known the joys of swaying man ; 

I've felt the love of woman ; 
I've stood by friends when red blood ran — 

And never shrank from foeman. 

But, ah, what matter that I ride 

Beside my monarch's bridle, 
And in the council halls decide, 

And move, the soldier's idol? 
You'll sleep the same when you lie down 

Upon your earthen pillow, 
Whether you win a laurel crown 

Or wear a wreath of willow ! 



HER HANDS 

Sometimes I sit and try to trace, 

In memory's records dim and faint, 
The features of my mother's face, 
With the calm look of gentle grace 

That marked our household's quiet saint. 

The innocence of her blue eyes, 

The winning smile about her lips, 
Child-simple and yet woman-wise, 
Her shining hair, her modest guise, 

All come in turn ; each fades and slips. 

230 



JOSEPH O'CONNOR 

I try to fix them, but in vain ; 

They waver, and yet will not fuse, 
Howe'er imagination strain 
To form the face that it would feign — 

Till on a sudden, as I muse, 

There comes a thought of her dear hands, 

All wrinkled, tanned, and labor-worn 

And there the simple woman stands, 
To meet her duty's hard demands, 
Among the children she has borne ! 

No work nor written word remains, 

Nor picture worthy to approve ; 
But read in knotted joints and veins, 
And tendons strong, and honest stains, 
The tale of service and of love ! 

hands of ministry, that wrought 

In constant care, through weal and woe, 
Nor rest by crib or coffin caught, 
This pang is mine — I never thought 
To kiss your fingers long ago ! 



NEW YEAR, OLD ERA 

There is no magic in the time, 

No spell in New Year's merry chime 

To change our being, fate, or clime. 

The wintry winds, as long ago, 
Among the moaning woods will blow 
The ghostly mists of wintry snow ; 

231 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The Spring, through tears of showery rain, 
Will smile, making the drift-bent grain 
And every bud and blossom fain ; 

The Summer's heat, the Summer's calm, 
Will brood o'er earth, and Summer's balm 
Rise like the incense with a psalm ; 

At touch of Autumn, as of old, 

The green of leaves will glow to gold, 

And gleam and wither and grow cold. 

There will be loss, there will be gain, 
And pleasure's thrill, and pang of pain, 
And thousands born and thousands slain ; 

There will be woe and deep delight, 
The victor's joy, the victim's fright, 
The blush of morn, the frown of night; 

The year will bring the lover's bliss, 

The dying mother's farewell kiss, 

The stock-dove's coo, the serpent's hiss ; 

The strong may fall, the weak may rise, 
The wicked thrive on cunning lies, 
The good go down in sacrifice ; 

The sun w T ill shine on freemen's glaives, 
It cannot shun the sight of slaves, 
Nor help but nourish grass on graves. 

Continued change for constant cause, 

Success and failure under laws ! 

We are not blown about like straws ; 

232 



JOSEPH O'CONNOR 

What comes is earned as well as meant ; 
Not impulse only, but intent 
And effort make development. 



THE FOUNT OF CASTALY 

I would the fount of Castaly 
Had never wet my lips ; 

For woe to him that hastily 
Its sacred water sips ! 

Apollo's laurel flourishes 
Above that stream divine ; 

Its secret virtue nourishes 
The leaves of love and wine. 

No naiad, faun, or nereid 

Preserves its haunts in charge, 
Or watches o'er the myriad 

Of flowers about its marge; 

But aye around the caves of it 
The muses chant their spells, 

And charm the very waves of it, 
As out that fountain wells. 

Its joyous tide leaps crystally 
Up 'neath the crystal moon, 

And falling ever mistily 

The sparkling drops keep tune. 

233 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The wavelets circle gleamily, 

With lilies keeping trysts ; 
Fair emeralds glisten dreamily 

Below, and amethysts. 

Once taste that fountain's witchery 

On old Parnassus' crown, 
And to this world of treachery 

Ah, never more come down ! 

Your joy will be to think of it, 
'T will ever haunt your dreams ; 

You'll thirst again to drink of it 
Among' a thousand streams ! 



234 



EFFIE DUNREITH GLUCK 



EFFIE DUNREITH GLUCK 

(Mrs. James Fraskr Gluck.) 
ALFONSO 

Away, ye haunting shapes — ambition, pride 
Of kingly state, plans unfulfilled — that cower 
With gloomy eyes — desire, youth's wayward 
flower, 

And ruined youth itself, of hope denied ! 

As phantoms of the night ye, mocking, glide 
Before my fading eyes in this last hour 
And me defy ; nor hath my sceptre power 

To bid ye go, nor stay death's rising tide, 

Yet go ye must ! For memory holds the day 
When Love alone was king, and life grew fair, 

And cares of state were light as frosts of May, 
And breath of violets filled the happy air. 

Ah, Mercedes ! I see thee smiling there ; 

Death grants me love, earth's anguish slips 
away. 



235 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



ESTHER C. DAYENPORT 

THEN AND NOW 

Little feet, restless feet, pattering o'er my cottage 

floor, — 
Little faces fair and sweet, peeping in at the open 

door ; 
Little voices free from care 
Calling "Mama" everywhere — 
Calling sometimes all in vain, 
For my heart was filled with pain. 

Grieving that my rooms were bare, — 
That no jewels decked my hair, 
That my garb was coarse and old, 
That my friends seemed growing cold. 

And, as I sat and brooded o'er 

My lack of wealth and lack of fame, 

Death came in at the open door 

And called my darlings, each by name. 

He touched my girl with the golden head, — 

And quick the light from her eye had fled, — 

My boy he took by his little hand 

And led him away to angel land. 

Last night I stood in palace hall, 

And fame was mine and jewels rare ; 

But wearily I turned from all 

To long for my babes with the golden hair. 

236 



ESTHER C. DAVENPORT 

My fame I would give for one caress 
Of the little hands I used to press 
Between my own, so brown and bare. 
That now, are as white as the lilies fair. 

Oh, I long to sit at the cottage door, 

And watch for their shadows to fall on the floor, 

And listen once more to the sweet refrain 

Of their gentle voices, calling "Mama" again. 

But the past is past, and may not come back.— 

And life must be lived whatever its lack, 

But I know with anguish that I turned from my 

sheaves, 
That I garnered up nothing but rustling leaves. 



DOKOTHY 

< ' Dead ! " did you say ? My little girl ? 

Why, life for her had only just begun ; 
She was my priceless Pearl,— 

And yet you bid me say, " His will be done.' 
And, too, you bid me not to weep. 
And tell me that she does but sleep — 
When she lies silent on her bed 
And everybody saying, " Dorothy is dead." 

Oh, how can I be glad at morn, 

Missing the music of her dear voice ; 

That has, since ever she was born, 
Made our fond hearts rejoice? 

237 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Or when the hour draws near 
That, listening, I was wont to hear 
Her footsteps coming o'er the grass 
From school, how can I, that time, pass? 

Yes ! Yes ! I know all you would say, 

"That whom He loveth feels the rod." — 

And sometime there may come a day — 
When grass is growing on the sod 

'Neath which my Dorothy lies asleep, 

When even I may cease to weep, 

But until then — ah ! until then, — 

I dwell upon what might have been. 



238 



W. H. C. HOSMER 



W. H. C. HOSMER 

FUNEEAL ODE 

Suggested by the departure of Bishop Timon. 

Servant of God ! well done ! 
The heavenly palm-branch and the crown of gold 

By thee were nobly won ; 
And the Good Shepherd to his starry fold 

Hath gathered a great leader of the flock, 

Faith-founded on the Everlasting Rock. 

The chime of funeral bells 
And wailing dirge-notes for the sainted dead 

Thrilled to their inmost cells 
The stricken Army of the Cross he led, 

Until an angel, through the darkness, cried — 

" Good Bishop, lay thy rod and staff aside! " 

Away with useless tears, 
Though gone another planter of the Vine— 
His grave-couch is a shrine, 

And like a tropic winter were the years 
Of his majestical and calm decline. 
Episcopal authority became 
One who could temper dignity with love, 
And strove to find his rich reward above, 

Indifferent to the dazzling gauds of fame, 
Poor mortal praise or blame. 

239 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Meek follower of a Master undefiled ! 

His charity o'erstepped the bounds of creed, 
And artless in his nature as a child, 

His lucid thoughts matured to holy deed. 
Ah ! though our hearts are with devotion stirred 

By melting accents from his tongue no more, 

While the blue waves of Erie kiss the shore 

His honored name will be a household word ; 
Lips, touched with fire, are mute, 

And shades of night are on his coffin thrown, 

But seed that he hath sown 

Is ripening in sad hearts to precious fruit. 

Oh ! not unmeet are types of outward woe, 
The chanted requiem, and imposing rites, 
When, one by one, go out the guiding lights 

That cheered our paths below. 

In sympathy capricious April seems 

With weeping thousands bitterly bereaved; 
Flow on with sadder melody the streams. 

And wails the fitful blast like one who grieved. 
Far from the frost that kills, 

The blight that withers on this finite shore, 
Gone is our friend to summer on the hills 

Of God forevermore. 

Avon, April 23, 1867. 



240 



GRACE BALFOUR 



GRACE BALFOUR 



SIGNS OF HUMMER 



The tender grass has grown full ankle deep, 

And o'er this fresh, green carpet of the wold 

The dandelions gleam like flecks of gold ; 
While from their downy buds and winter sleep 
The pink-tipped snows of apple blossoms peep, 

And in the warm, south breeze their leaves 
unfold, 

Filling with odors sweet and wealth untold 
The fragrant winds that through the orchards 
creep. 

At morn and eve, the woods resound with song, 
As birds and echo join their voices clear; 

All through the sunny day, a busy throng, 
The birds flit to and fro with loving fear, 

Weaving their nests of twigs so safe and strong, 
And all the air is glad, for summer's near. 

Glen Iris, May, 1876. 



241 



POETS AND POETKY OF BUFFALO 



ELLEN M. FERRIS 

NARCISSUS 

He lay reclining on a fountain's brink, 
Narcissus, fairest youth of mortal mold ; 

Half-closed his radiant eyes, adown his neck 
Wide rolled his hair in waves of living gold; 

The earth was lapped in summer's purple haze, 
Enamored zephyrs kissed his ivory brow, 

The fountain murmured softly in his ear, 
A wild bird twittered from a neighboring bough ; 

All summer sights, all pleasant summer sounds 

Allured him, and he drank in their delight, 
And in delicious languors steeped his soul, 

As flowers are steeped in sunshine hot and 
bright — 
But at his heart eternal longing lay, 

A longing that half pleasure was, half pain ; 
A dream of beauty never yet fulfilled, 

A dream whose substance he had sought in vain. 

" Why did the gods make me thus beautiful, 

Why give me this sweet sense of all things fair, 
Yet place me lonely, in a lonely land 

With no dear soul my happiness to share? 

" For oh ! it is a blessedness to feel 

Myself thus beautiful and I am blest; 
But were there yet some fair and golden head 
To smooth its curls, to pillow on my breast; 

242 



ELLEN M. FERRIS 

" To gather kisses from its vermeil lips, 
To answer in low silver speech to mine, 
To read soft passion in its tender eyes, 
Oh ! then were life, indeed, a thing divine. 

" Yet, there are many young and many fair, 

And some who love me. It perchance were well 
If I could win some fond and gentle nymph 
And in sweet peace and calm affection dwell. 

" But they who from the gods have godlike gifts 
Seem by their very gifts men set apart 
From all the world ; by common joys and griefs 
Untouched, no common love can fill the heart. 

"And such am I, and thus I w^ait and watch 
For her, the goddess beautiful and bright, 
Who shall unlock the chambers of my soul 
And bring its secret treasures forth to light. 

" I feel — I feel the appointed hour has come, 
I feel — I feel the goddess now is near; 
The murmuring fountain seems to call her name. 
love, my beautiful! appear! appear! " 

And gazing down into the crystal pool 
What face is this smiles up into his own ? 

Oh ! never since on mortal's favored sight 
Hath face of such unearthly fairness shone. 

Half-parted were the lips of vermeil bloom, 
The azure eyes of amorous passion told ; 

Adown the ivory brow and polished neck, 
Wide rolled the hair in waves of living gold. 

243 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Entranced he gazed upon the pictured face, 
Wildly he called the goddess, but in vain. 

She smiled upon him with soft luring eyes, 

She smiled and smiled but answered not again. 

Unhappy youth, well works the evil charm, 
Who loves himself too well shall woe betide. 

Thenceforth none knew Narcissus in the land, 
But by that fatal pool he pined and died. 



A SLEIGH RIDE 

Lightly, swiftly, on we go 

Over the waste of glittering snow, 

Above the sky is keenly blue, 

The stars like spear-points piercing through. 

The air is crisp and clear and fine, 

Like a sparkling draught of ice-cold wine ; 

And we drink it in with youthful zest 

With tingling lips and heaving breast ; 

And we fling abroad to the listening night 

Ripples of laughter gay and bright, 

To blend with the chime of the silver bells 

W T hose fairy music sinks and swells, 

Keeping time with the steady beat, 

On the frozen crust, of our horses' feet. 

And we please ourselves with fancies wild 
As visit the dreams of a restless child, 
When traveler's tales have fired his brain 
Till in slumber he wanders o'er land and main. 

244 



ELLEN M. FERRIS 

So in the frozen zone we seem 

To float along in a waking dream. 

Now Lapland reindeer slim and fleet 

Bear us onward with flying feet, 

Now we glide over wastes of Arctic snow 

In the dog-drawn sled of the Esquimaux, 

While above the sky shines ghostly bright 

With the slanting rays of the Northern light, 

And all the scene grows weird and strange 

With swift phantasmagoric change. 

On and on, and near and near 

A city's flashing lights appear. 

Its broad white streets before us lie, 

Its slim spires pierce the far blue sky, 

And the night and snow have rounded away 

All the hard rude outlines of the day, 

Till we half believe, as the scene we scan, 

'Tis the wondrous City of Genistan, 

A clash of the bells and we stop before 

A stately mansion's arching door, 

Up the marble steps through the entry wide 

And the region of magic is left outside. 

"Home again?" "Are you cold?" "0, no, 'twas 
fun." 

' ' Good night, sweet dreams, ' ' but the dream is done. 



245 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



IRVING BROWNE 

man's pillow 

A baby lying on his mother's breast 
Draws life from that sweet fount ; 

He takes his rest, 

And heaves deep sighs ; 

With brooding eyes 

Of soft content 
She shelters him within that fragrant nest, 
And scarce refrains from crushing him 

With tender violence, 
His rosebud mouth, each rosy limb 

Excite such joy intense; 
Rocked on that gentle billow, 

She sings into his ear 
A song that angels stoop to hear. 
Blest child and mother doubly blest ! 

Such his first pillow. 

A man outwearied with the world's mad race 
His mother seeks again ; 
His furrowed face, 
His tired gray head, 
His heart of lead 
Resigned he yields ; 
She covers him in some secluded place, 
And kindly heals the earthy scar 
Of spade with snow and flowers, 

246 



IRVING BROWNE 

While glow of sun and gleam of star, 
And murmuring rush of showers, 

And wind-obeying willow 
Attend his unbroken sleep ; 

In this repose secure and deep, 
Forgotten save by One, he leaves no trace. 

Such his last pillow. 



MY NEW WORLD 

My prow is tending toward the west : 

Old voices growing faint, dear faces dim, 
And all that I have loved the best 

Far back upon the waste of memory swim. 
My old world disappears : 
Few hopes and many fears 
Accompany me. 

But from the distance fair 

A sound of birds, a glimpse of pleasant skies, 
A scent of fragrant air, 
All soothingly arise 
In cooing voice, sweet breath and merry eyes 

Of grandson on my knee. 
And ere my sails be furled, 
Kind Lord, I pray 
Thou let me live a day 
In my new world. 

247 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

A PORTRAIT 

A gentle face is ever in my room, 

With features fine and melancholy eyes, 

Though young, a little past life's freshest bloom, 
And always with an air of sad surmise. 

A great white cap almost conceals her hair, 

A collar broad falls o'er her shoulders slender ; 

The fashion of a bygone age an air 

Of quaintness to her simple garb doth render. 

Those hazel eyes pursue me as I move 

And seem to watch my busy, toiling pen ; 

They hold me with an anxious, yearning love, 
As if she dwelt upon the earth again. 

My mother's portrait! fifty years ago, 
When I was but a heedless, happy boy, 

The influence of her being ceased to flow, 
And she laid down life's burden and its joy. 

And now as I sit pondering o'er my book, 

So vainly seeking a receding rest, 
I read the wonder in her steadfast look ; 

" Is this my son who lay upon my breast? " 

And when for me there is an end of time, 

And this unsatisfying work is done, 
If I shall meet thee in thy peaceful clime, 

Young mother, wilt thou know thy gray-haired 
son? 

248 



IRVING BROWNE 

CRADLE SONG 

Haste, my baby, haste and grow ! 
Wilt thou always sleep and crow? 
Up and down the pleasant land 
We should wander hand in hand ; 
Leaning on thy stalwart arm 
Mother thou wilt shield from harm. 

Life's a span, 

Baby-man ! 
Haste thee, little man, and grow ! 

Baby, do not haste to grow, 
For thy mother loves thee so ! 
Lay thy little head a space 
Closely to her yearning face; 
Snugly hid within her arms 
She shall keep thee from all harms. 

Life's a span, 

Baby -man ! 
But there's time enough to grow. 

When thy mother's hair is gray, 
Turn a moment from thy way, 
Let her tears and smiles be shed 
On her darling's manly head; 
Once thy mother's chiefest joy, 
Let age leave thee still her boy. 

Life's a span, 

Grown-up man ! 
Time will bring us old and gray. 

249 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM 

A host marched through a bannered street, 

Proudly, proudly to the war, 
But one looked up, his love to greet, 

Sadly, sadly from afar. 
She pressed her heart so full of fears, 
She threw him a rose all wet with tears — 

Oh ! life is but a span — 
And the fifes screamed merrily in the van, 

" The girl I left behind me." 

The host lay on a trampled plain, 

Silently, silently there they lay, 
And ever the deadly battle-stain 

Redly, redly marked the clay. 
One pressed to his heart a pictured face, 
And fondly kissed the pictured grace— 

Oh ! life is but a span — 
She fades from the sight of the dying man — 

The girl he left behind him. 



• MY SCHOOLMATE 

On a medallion by Erastus Dow Palmer. 

The snows have settled on my head, 

But not upon my heart, 
And incidents of years long fled, 

From out my memory start. 

250 



IRVING BROWNE 

My hand is cunning- to contrive 

The shapes ray brain invents, 
And keep in marble forms alive 

That which the soul contents. 
And I have wife, and children tall, 

Grandchildren cluster near, 
And sweet the applause of men doth fall 

On my undeafened ear ; 
But still my mind will backward turn 

For half a century, 
And without reasoning will yearn 

For sight or news of thee, 
Thou playmate of my boyhood days, 

When life was all aglow, 
When the sweetest thing was thy girlish praise, 

As I drew thee o'er the snow 
To the old red school-house by the road, 

Where we learned to spell and read, 
When thou wert all my fairy load, 

And I was thy prancing steed ! 
Oh, thou wert simple then, and fair, 

Artless and unconstrained, 
With quaintly knotted auburn hair 

From which the wind refrained, 
And from thine earnest, steady eyes 

Shone out a nature pure, 
Formed by kind heaven, a man's best prize, 

To love and to endure ! 

Oh, art thou still in life and time, 
Or hast thou gone before? 

251 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And hath thy lot been like to mine, 

Or pinched and bare and sore? 
And didst thou marry, or art thou 

Still of the spinster tribe ? 
Perchance thou art a widow now, 

Steeled against second bribe? 
Do grandsons round thy hearthstone play? 

Or dost thou end thy race? 
And could that auburn hair grow gray, 

And wrinkles line thy face? 
I cannot make thee old nor plain — 

I would not if I could — 
But I recall thee without stain, 

Simply and sweetly good ; 
And I have carved thy pretty head, 

And hung it on my wall, 
And unto all men be it said, 

I like it best of all, 
For on a far-off snowy road, 

Before I had learned to read. 
Thou wert all my fairy load, 

And I was thy prancing steed ! 



SOLITAIRE 

I like to play cards with a man of sense, 
And allow him to play with me; 

And so it has grown a delight intense 
To play solitaire on my knee. 

252 



IRVING BROWNE 

I love the quaint form of the sceptered king, 

The simplicity of the ace, 
The stolid knave like a wooden thing, 

And her majesty's smirking face. 

Diamonds, aces, and clubs and spades — 

Their garb of respectable black 
A moiety brilliant of red invades, 

As they mingle in motley pack. 

Independent of anyone's signal or leave, 
Released from the bluffing of poker, 

I've no apprehension of ace up a sleeve, 
And fear no superfluous joker. 

I build up and down all the cards that I hold, 

And the game is always fair, 
For I am honest, and so is my old 

Companion at solitaire. 

Let kings condescend to the lower grades, 
Let queens shine in diamonds rare, 

Let knaves nourish clubs, and peasants wield 
spades, 
But give me my solitaire. 



THE VOICE OF THE SHELL 

A careless wanderer on the beach, 
When the early sky is clear — 

What is the pink shell's murmuring speech 
To his inquiring ear ? 

253 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Its voice is only Love ; 

Its murmur is only Love ; 
No cloud in the sky, and the wind is sweet, 
And with joy and hope his pulses beat ; — 

Its murmur is only Love, 

Its voice sings only Love. 

At noon, when the sea is high, 

And the sun is fierce and hot, 
And the vision of morn has gone by, 
And the clasp of Love holds not, 
The shell speaks only Fame, 
It murmurs only Fame ; 
The sky is fierce with a desert blast, 
And the promise of morn on the wind has 
passed ; — 

The shell chants only Fame, 
Its burden is only Fame. 

At night, when the tide is low, 

And the heavens are overcast, 
And the pulses of life beat slow, 
What is the message at last? 

It whispers only Rest, 

It has no word but Rest. 
A star shines over a distant hill, 
A single star, and the wind is chill ; — 

The shell whispers only Rest, 

Its constant hymn is Rest. 

Oh, Love of the morning so dim ! 
Oh, elusive Fame of the noon ! 

254 



IRVING BROWNE 

Oh, prophecy of the evening hymn ! 
Will my love come back to me soon ? 

But the shell says only Rest, 

Its single whisper is Rest ! 
Can I gain my Love once more? 
My love and my faith restore ! 

But the shell still whispers Rest ! 

Its final murmur is Rest! 



255 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 
ALLEN GILMAN BIGELOW 

THE HIGHWAYMAN 

Did you ever meet a robber with a pistol and a 

knife, 
Whose prompt and cordial greeting was, "your 

in oney or yo ur life ' ' ; 
Who, while you stood a trembling, with your 

hands above your head, 
Took your gold, most grimly offering to repay 

you in cold lead ? 

Well, I once met a robber: I was going home 

to tea. 
The way was rather lonely, though not yet too 

dark to see 
That the sturdy rogue who stopped me there was 

very fully armed — 
But I'm honest in maintaining that I didn't feel 

alarmed. 

He was panting hard from running, so I, being 

still undaunted, 
Very boldly faced the rascal and demanded what 

he wanted : 
I was quite as big as he was, and I was not out of 

breath, 
So I did not fear his shooting me, or stabbing me 

to death. 

256 



ALLEN GILMAN BIGELOW 

In answer to my question the highwayman raised 

an arm 
And pointed it straight at me— though I still felt 

no alarm ; 
He did not ask for money, but what he said was 

this : 
"You cannot pass, Papa, unless you give your 

boy a kiss! " 



DAVID GRAY 

While on the anvil of his life 
The daily blows rang full and strong, 
Forging the hot iron of his thought 

Into the plowshare or the knife, 
Whate'er his busy hammer wrought, 
His wearying toil, or short or long, 
He lightened with a song. 

Men say the toiler's task is done, 
And soon his work they may forget — 
A rusted share, a broken blade, 

Cast to one side at set of sun, 
All that is left of what he made ; 
But, now the sun is fully set, 
His singing lingers with us yet. 



257 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

THE SPIRIT OF THE BELES 

High in the belfry of St. Paul's 

A strange, weird spirit dwells 
Amid the ghostly wheels and ropes, — 

The Spirit of the Bells. 

As often as the bells are swung 

The Spirit loudly sings ; 
Now wild and sweet, now gay, now sad, 

His changeful music rings. 

On Sabbath morn the Spirit's voice 

Loud o'er the city peals, 
At evening, like the Angel us 

His silvery summons steals. 

The wedding of two loving hearts 

The Spirit gladsome tells, 
Pouring a shower of golden notes 

From great and little bells. 

Anon, with solemn tolling tones, 

The Spirit slowly knells 
The parting of a human soul, — 

And sobs amid the bells. 

On glorious Independence Day 

With patriotic shout 
He makes a joyous clangor as 

He whirls the bells about. 

Amid the perfume of the flowers 
Which Easter morning brings, 

258 



ALLEN GILMAN BIGELOW 

A risen and triumphant Lord 
The Spirit loudly sings. 

Again, beneath the wintry moon 

The Spirit's voice I hear 
'Mid flying snow and flying cloud, 

Proclaim the glad New Year. 

But ah ! when Christmas-tide returns, — 
The birth-night of our Lord, — 

'T would seem a year's glad ringing then 
Within the bells is stored. 

The Spirit holds high carnival 

Up in his belfry then ! 
And "Gloria in Excelsis " sings, 

And "Peace, good-will to men." 

He swings the pealing bells about, 

The iron cups o'erflow 
And dash their floods of melody 

Upon the streets below. 

The pealing organ, far beneath, 

The glorious anthem swells 
And answers the glad carol of 

The Spirit of the Bells. 

Then, in the belfry of St. Paul's 

A happy Spirit dwells 
'Mid whirling wheels and reeling ropes, — 

Glad Spirit of the Bells. 

city ! canst thou e'er forget 
This tale the Spirit tells 

259 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

High in the tower of old St. Paul's, 
Among the swinging bells ? 

Amid the roar of busy streets, 

Which better feeling quells, 
List to that voice from old St. Paul's — 

The Spirit of the Bells. 



260 



JOHN CHARLES SHEA 



JOHN CHARLES SHEA. 

A WINTER SCENE ON THE PRAIRIE 

From a farmer's lonely dwelling, on a dull and 

cheerless morn, 
Went a youth to feed the cattle, but, alas ! there 

was no corn ; 
There was ice upon the lowlands, where the chilly 

wind flew fast, 
And the clouds, like ramparts frowning, seemed to 

hold the wintry blast. 

A dark line on the prairie, where the Machehaha 
runs, 

Marks a place for cooling shelter from the sum- 
mer's burning suns ; 

But the bare and brittle branches of the trees now 
sadly drear. 

Moan along the frozen waters like a death-knell on 
the ear. 

The youth looked to the eastward where the day 
god shines afar, 

But the dun clouds in the heavens had shut out 
the golden car — 

As if the drowsy angels, shivering through celes- 
tial light, 

Came down with hands too chilly to upfold the 



shades of night. 



261 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

As he gazes o'er the country — look ! a shimmering- 
light is seen, — 

'Tis the icy diamonds' glitter on earth's jewelled 
carpet's sheen ; 

And the dun clouds in the heavens, casting shadows 
as they pass, 

Can be viewed, as in a mirror, on the sea of frozen 
grass. 

Hark! a sound comes from the rising of the hill 
beyond the streams, 

Where a dead oak's gnarled branches in the dis- 
tance waves and gleams — 

It re-echoes through the distance in a long, vibrat- 
ing note, — 

'Tis the prairie wolf in hunger — 'tis the cowardly 
coyote. 

A deer has broken cover on the upland far away, 

It is making easy progress where the quiet shad- 
ows play; 

The breeze from prairie warrens now the wild 
dog's barkings bring, 

And the hawk affrights the game bird with the 
shadow of its wing. 

But the youth hears sadder noises than those 

upon the breeze, 
And he views a deeper shadow than those among 

the trees, 

262 



JOHN CHARLES SHEA 

For he's heard the neighbors telling that the cattle 

in the sheds 
Cannot rise for want of fodder, from their cold and 

frozen beds. 

From the farmer's lonely dwelling, on a dull and 

cheerless morn, 
Went a youth to feed his cattle, but, alas ! there 

was no corn. 
There was nothing that would strengthen on the 

ranges where they fed, 
And half the herd were dying, and — the other 

half were dead. 

Lawrence, Kansas, March, 1875. 



IN THE PARK 

Among the leaves ! Among the falling leaves, 

The stately trees have lost their summer's glow, 

And passing o'er the fields the evening breeze 
Awakens voices that are sweet and low. 

Along delightful pathways of the park 

Nature has painted scenes both rich and rare, 

And all her colors, shining light to dark, 
Produce a picture glowing bright and fair. 

Bright friends, you are in passing season's flow — 
For Hope, with your unfolding, marks the spring, 

And in the summer's bright and genial glow 

You throw the charm of shade o'er everything. 

263 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And under thy protection birds have made 

The woodland ring with joyous songs of love, 

And in the secret corners of thy shade 

They found a shelter from the storms above. 

Among thy leaves ! — among thy rustling leaves 
I played, enraptured, when a thoughtless child, 

And learned their softer cadence in the breeze 

And marked their voices when the storm was 
wild. 

Thus through this life; and when we've passed 
away, 

The leaves, our friends, will nestle where we lie, 
Their colors brightening in the sunlight ray, 

Their voices mellowed 'neath the autumn sky. 



I WANT TO GO FISHING TO-DAY 

There's a langorous feeling and sultry air, 

In office and store and street ; 
There's a longing for shores where the winds are 
fair, 

And cooling sands for the feet. 
There's the swish of the waves and the splash of 
the oars, 

The sound of a distant call ; 
There's the far-away cloud that gently soars, 

And the blue that covers all. 

264 



JOHN CHARLES SHEA 

And, oh, as I look from my window high, 

And watch the clouds at play, 
There comes from my heart such a rising sigh 

I want to go fishing to-day. 

I strive to banish the thought of a line 

That leads to the lair of the bass ; 
I think of the dangers that may be mine, 

Ere the island's head I pass. 
But, oh, that bare-footed boy that comes 

With his rod, has stirred me again, 
And I sing once more the song that he hums, 

And I long to be in his train. 
For memory launched a silvery boat 

On a sea that is bright and gay — 
The happiest man I would be afloat, 

Could I but go fishing to-day. 



MY MOTHER S VOICE 

The voice of her I love, how dear ! 

Tho' far my wand'ring footsteps stray, 
It lingers on my list'ning ear, 
It vibrates thro 1 each passing year ; 

And, thinking of that voice to-day, 
Remembrance claims the willing tear. 

My mother's voice ! Its gentle power 
Has turned temptation's face away ; 

265 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And tho' the tempest clouds may lower, 
To darken life's most joyous hour, 

It comes, like sunshine on the day, 
To brighten field, and wood, and bower. 

That voice comes to me when alone, 
In cheering accents, soft and sweet ; 

In festive halls I hear its tone ; 

And when to wilder scenes I've flown — 
Thro' haunts of men, thro' busy street — 

Its magic spell is round me thrown. 

How sweet the voices are that blend 
In murmuring rill and flow'ry lee; 

In whisperings that the south winds send; 

In sighs from trees when branches bend ; 
In thrilling sounds from heaving sea, 

And in the echoes valleys lend ! 

Yet naught has ever touched my heart 
Like that sweet voice I long to hear ; 

An echo of the soul thou art! 

And from this revery I start 

To feel my mother's spirit near, 

Sweet voice! ah, we shall never part ! 



26G 



MARY EVELYN AUSTIN 



MARY EVELYN AUSTIN 

TWILIGHT 

Softly the twilight comes from out the land 

Of shadows, and upon each weary brow 
She lays a touch that calms— we know not how, 

But only feel the softness of her hand ; 

And cares that have oppressed, at her command, 
Leave us in peace, and bitter sorrows, now, 
She lulls to sleep, and will no more allow 

Their wakening till the clamorous day's demand. 
No active life disturbeth them— the power 

Of her majestic presence so has filled 

Our secret souls, that all unconsciously, 
We yield unto the spirit of the hour ; 

And so are comforted, hushed, and stilled ; 

As children are when round their mother's 
knee. 



DECEMBER 

The earth lies flooded in the light 
Of a strange star, a star so bright, 
The others hide themselves ; the bells 
Are ringing out a song that tells 
Of joy on earth, and in the sky 
An Angel chorus, from on high, 

267 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Id hallelujahs tell, that peace 
And love to man shall never cease. 
Now comes a maiden, grand and fair, 
An ice-crown on her golden hair, 
With warmest love in her soft eyes ; 
She leads us where a Baby lies 
Sleeping upon a lonely bed, 
A glorious halo round His head. 
Surely art thou, December dear, 
The blessed month of all the year. 



A WATER LILY 

See what a perfect form has this fair flower 
That lies reposing on the river's breast ; 

Moving whene'er the swelling water breathes, 
And by the motion lulled to dreamy rest. 

It does not seem as if the sombre ground 
Could to so beautiful a thing give birth, 

And yet the slender, pliant stem has found 
Below the wave an anchor in the earth. 

Each pearly petal is a mystery, 

So beautiful it is, so pure and white ; 

It might have been a jewel once in heaven, 
Dropped by an angel in his upward flight. 

So plenteous is the perfume it exhales, 

The winds, the willing messengers, a part 

Bear to the shore, to lure adventurous bees 
To seek for honey in its golden heart. 

268 



MARY EVELYN AUSTIN 

Sometimes a busy insect quite forgets— 
In his intent to gather winter stores — 

The night's approach, until the outer leaves 
Making him captive, gently close the doors. 

Oh ! who would not in such a prison house 
A willing dweller pass his life away, 

And let the flying hours unnoticed glide 

From day to night ; — from night again to day ! 



MISS CROCUS 

Miss Crocus poked her cunning head 
Straight up into the snow. 
"Oh my ! " said she, " 'tis cold up here, 
I wish I'd staid below." 

She would have perished, but the sun 

Revived her with his light ; 
He raised her head and drove the snow 

Away, quite out of sight. 

But when the other flowers came up 
They said "You selfish thing, 

Y"ou should have called us when you came, 
We didn't know 'twas spring." 

"I didn't like to waken you, 
You all were sleeping so, 
Besides," she said, "some one must be 
The first to start, you know." 

269 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



FREDERIC ALMY 

KING TOIL 
Read at the dedication of the Pan-American Exposition, Buffalo, May 20, 1901 . 

A King is crowned on this May day 

With pomp beyond the dreams of kings ; 

From pole to pole extends his sway, 
And half a world its tribute brings. 

Two continents of freedom bend 

Before his throne a willing knee, 
And Gods and Titans condescend 

To serve the lord that is to be. 

The bolts of Jove are in his hand, 

Niagara yields, the seas obey ; 
Not Xanadu or Samarcand 

Can match his palace of a day. 

With throbbing flags instead of drum, 
With flashing streams instead of sword, 

King Toil, the king of kings, has come, 
Of all mankind the hope and lord. 

And Beauty comes as Queen of Toil 

To share his rainbow jubilee; 
Art tempering use like a sweet foil, — 

A bow of hope across our sea. 

Toil's Barons twain of Brawn and Brain 
Their countless triumphs here display ; 

For Brawn has wrought what Brain has thought, 
And both are passing proud to-day. 

270 



FREDERIC ALMY 

Three great nativities emboss 

Peace on the young King's diadem,— 

The Northern Star, the Southern Cross, 
And the white star of Bethlehem.* 

Who prates of Peace? What war so dire 
As Labor's wars, where hungry wives, 

And uncheered men, forsaking hire, 
In comrades' battles risk their lives? 

Though Head and Hand still vex the land 
With civil strife for share of spoil, 

The fettering past shall break at last, 

And peace on earth shall dwell with Toil. 

( Culture and wealth shall learn to hold 
Their gifts in trust, for others' joy ; 

Love shall wash Ishmael's feet, and gold 
Shall purge its hard and base alloy. 

Here, in Toil's temple opal-hued, 

Blazing with gold and amethyst, 
Its brief, eternal pulchritude 

By fountains laved, by fire kissed, 

We pledge this century, which shall close 
A great Millennium's splendid page 

And lead Man, conqueror o'er old foes, 
To the new tasks of a new age. 

* The motto on the Pan-American flag was Pax, and the emblems the 
North Star and the Southern Cross. 



271 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

DO — SAY 

Two Brothers once lived down this way, 
And one was Do and one was Say. 
If streets were dirty, taxes high, 
Or schools too crowded, Say would cry : 
"Lord, what a town ! " but Brother Do 
Would set to work to make things new. 

And while Do worked Say still would cry: 
" He does it wrong ! 1 know that I 
Could do it right." So all the day 
Was heard the clack of Brother Say. 
But this one fact from none was hid : 
Say always talked ; Do always did. 



TO JOHN B. OLMSTED 

On his Fiftieth Birthday, January 28, 1904. 

Useful, yet genial, you can warm 
The chilly summits of reform. 
The sinners scarcely feel constraint 
With such a comfortable Saint ; 
And yet for fifty years have you 
The gospel lived of service true. 

Serious and strong, you seek to share 
The loads the heavier-hearted bear, 
While at your smile their fardels seem 
To disappear as in a dream. 
The Cloud-compeller could not vie 
With you in making shadows fly. 

272 



FREDERIC ALMY 

When you were born, Joy laughed to see 

How dear to men your life would be. 

Your singing soul can drive away 

The darkness of the dreariest day, 

And all your hosts of friends gain cheer 

Simply from knowing you are here. 



273 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



MARY J. MacCOLL 

CONTRADICTION 

Over the purple hills, 

On through the dewy dale, 
Softly the twilight steals 

Clad in her misty veil ; 
Dead is the after-glow ; 

Fair on the brow of night 
Glea.meth the moon ; below 

Mirrors the lake her light. 

Creeping o'er clovered leas, 

Stealing through boughs abloom, 
Bloweth a gentle breeze 

Laden with rich perfume. 
Sweetly a down the dell 

Floateth a lightsome lay ; 
Katydid, hush! and tell — 

Rideth my love that way ? 

Close by the ivied tower, 

Weaving sweet dreams, I wait, 
Wearing his favorite flower ; 

Y^et, when he opes the gate, 
I shall be cold and shy ; 

The buds aside I'll throw, 
And wish he would pass by, 

Though I should weep, I know. 

274 



MARY J. MacCOLL 

The robe he praised I wear, 

A simple gown of white; 
['ve bound my shining hair 

With sprays of myrtle bright. 
(), heart! he is anear 

In haste I turn aside, 
Albeit I love him dear, 

Dearer than all beside. 



A PENITENTIAL PRAYER 

0, God ! 1 lift my tearful eyes to Thee, 

Hear Thou my prayer ; 
For comfort, Lord, I cry imploringly, — 

My sorrow share. 

Here at Thy feet my wounded heart I lay, — 

Thou wilt not spurn, 
Though I have wandered from Thee far away, 

Nor would return. 

Though oft with patient love Thou didst beseech, 

In wrath command, 
I heeded not the lessons Thou wouldst teach, — 

I built on sand. 

I sought with earthly love my soul to feed, 

But all in vain, — 
It left me famishing in hour of need, 

And brought but pain, 

275 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Rending; the veil that hid ray inner life 

From human eyes, 
Revealed past failures, errors, sorrow, strife, — 

In cold surprise. 

Love, seeking for perfection, scornful turned 

From me aside ; 
The comfort, help and strength for which I yearned 

Were each denied. 

Now, ever faithful Friend, to Thee I come; 

Dear Lord, forgive ! 
A weary wanderer returning home, 

I pray receive. 

An empty, undivided heart at last 

I offer Thee ; 
seal it Thine, — my broken idols cast 

Afar from me. 

With willing feet I'll follow evermore 

Where Thou dost lead ; 
Thy love hath proven an exhaustless store 

In hour of need. 

Within the shelter of Thine arms alone 

Is peace and rest ; 
Dear, tender Saviour, gladly do I own 

Thv love is best. 



276 



MINNIE FERRIS HAUENSTEIN 



MINNIE FERRIS HAUENSTEIN 

A MEMORY 

Bocaccio, my Gondolier ! Bocaccio, once more 

Along the charmed aisles of memory, 
I hear the splash of thy sturdy oar — 

Upon the crystal pavement of Venice, by the sea; 
I dream of the golden glory of San Giorgio 'gainst 

the sky, 
And watch the tawny lateen sails that silently 

drift by. 
I catch the tang of the salty wind, the Adriatic's 

breath, 
And see in the light of yesterday, a past day's 

radiant death. 

Bocaccio, my Gondolier, again I hear thy song, 
And see the strength of thy sinewy arm, the 
deep brown of thy breast, 
And I wish, Oh ! I wish, together we were thread- 
ing our way along 
The silvery highways of Venice — of Venice and 
of Rest! 



love's loyalty 

I said to Love, What is the price I pay 

To gain thy gracious favor? Shall I bring 
The hoarded riches of my wandering — 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Gold raiment redolent of far Cathay, 
The broidered glories of an ancient day 

With musky odors saturate, that fling 

The Orient's incense on the breezes wing, 
And jewels glimmering like the heart of May ? 

Would noble name, or deed of high emprise, 
Or fame, or laureled Honor win for me 

The cherished largess of love-laden e}^es? 
Then Love rose up and answered scornfully, 

Dost think with these to barter for my prize ? 
My very coming is Life's Mystery ! 



GETHSEMANE 

Aged and gnarled olives bend o'er him, 
Oh ! the shadows deep and the mystery ! 
Oh ! the garden drear and the Crosses three ! 

Kind solace pour from every branch and limb, 
His cup of anguish to the bitter brim 
O'erflows; beneath Iscariot's perfidy, 
And cowering Peter's sin, spent hopelessly, 
He gropes and suffers 'mid the wood-paths dim, 
And cries, "Am I alone? No outstretched hand 
To give me succor that I grief withstand? " 
Oh! faithless, slumbrous, unaccounting friends, 
Small peace your presence to the Master lends. 

Oh ! the shadows deep and the mystery ! 
Oh ! the garden drear and the Crosses three ! 

278 



MINNIE FERRIS HAUENSTEIN 

SACRAMENT 

Cool, in the shrouded shadows of the night, 

The table in that Upper Room was laid ; 

No glittering goblet there, no cloth arrayed 

In silvern broideries, — only the white 

Of one poor wheaten loaf to glad the sight, 

One Cup for all, Betrayer and Betrayed ! 

O'er these, with deepest thanks, the Master prayed, 

Unheeding gloom, and taunt of vanquished might. 

Beloved Christ! so patient in Thy pain, 

I shrink to own my starveling heart of fear 

That counts the petty coin of common care, 

As 'twere some Calvary, or thorn-cut stain ! 

Oh! let me breathe that Faith-charged atmosphere 

Which made Thee triumph over Death's despair! 



279 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



KATHERINE E. CONWAY 

NEW LAND AND NEW LIFE 

From "A Dream of Lil es." 

Behold, your quest is ended, 
And the New Land strange and splendid, 
No longer luring from afar, is firm beneath your 
tread ; 
And the way is free before ye. 
The skies unclouded o'er ye, 
And the past is dust and darkness and the dead 
have earthed their dead. 

Raise your cross and raise your altar, 
Why shrink ye thus, and falter? 
Are ye men, or love-lorn maidens? ye late were 
stern and brave. 
What's worth a strong man's weeping? 
The New Land hath in keeping 
Guerdon for valiant battle that the Old Land 
never gave. 

Have done with fruitless yearning, 
Know ye not there's no returning? 
The wrathful sea's between ye and your far-off 
fatherland. 
The worst it threatens brave ye! 
Now from yourselves I save ye — 
Lo, the ships that brought ye hither ablaze upon 
the strand. 

280 



KATHERINE E. CONWAY 

AT A GRAVE ON EASTEB-DAY. 
Credo ... in Resurrectionem Mortuorum. 

I know the sting of death — its victory— 

Since one more dear than mine own life is dead ; 

And I can nevermore be comforted, 

Whatever love may come in years to be, 

Till God give back what Death has wrenched 

from me. 
Yet, ye would slay my hope. Who was it said 
" There is no resurrection for such dead, 
What thou hast lost hath perished utterly? " 

False seer! my dead shall live again, I know. 
Those eyes once oh, so kind ! shall smile again ; 
And the dear hands that wrought but good to me, 
Hold mine in warm close clasp. I can forego 
Life's solace, and be patient with its pain 
Until the dav break and the shadows flee. 



LOTUS AND LILY 

Sometimes a dark hour cometh for us who are 

bound to bear 
The burden of lowly labor, the fetters of lowly 

care. 

An hour when the heart grows sick of the work- 
day's weary round, 

Loathing each oft-seen sight, loathing each oft- 
heard sound ! 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Loathing our very life, with its pitiful daily need, 
Learning in pain and weakness that labor is 
doom indeed. 

And this the meed of the struggle — tent, and rai- 
ment and bread? 

Oh, for the "Requiescant," and the sleep of the 
pardoned dead! 

Oh, the visions that torture and tempt us (how 

shall the heart withstand!) — 
The fountains and groves and grottoes of the 

Godless Lotus-land! 

Oh, the soft, entreating voices, making the tired 

heart leap, 
"Come over to us, ye toilers, and we will sing you 

to sleep.'' 

A fatal sleep, I trow ! but we are sad unto death, 
And the Lotus-flower unmans us with its sweet 
and baneful breath. 

We look to our fellow-toilers — what help, what 

comfort there? 
They're bowed by the self-same burden, beset by 

the self-same snare. 

Falleth the ashen twilight — meet close for the 

dreary day ; 
Hark to the chimes from the church-tower! but 

we are too tired to pray — 

282 



KATHERINE E. CONWAY 

Ah, God who lovest Thy creatures, sinful, and poor 

and weak, 
Hear'st prayer in the tired heart's throbbing, 

though the lips are too tired to speak? 

Is this Thy answer? Is this the herald of Thy 

peace ? 
For the Lotus withers before him, the songs of the 

Syrens cease, 

And the palm-trees and the grottoes, fountains 

and streamlets bright, 
Waver and change as he cometh, then fade from 

our weary sight. 

He is worn with care and labor ; he is garbed in 

lowliest guise, 
But we know the firm, sweet mouth, and the brave, 

brave patient eyes ; 

And we know the shining lilies — no blooms of 

mortal birth — 
And we know thee, blessed Joseph, in the guise 

that was thine on earth. 

Thy hands are hardened with toil, but they have 

toiled for Him 
Upon whose bidding waited legions of Seraphim. 

Thy hands have trained to labor the hands of Him 

who made thee, 
Whose strength upbore thy weakness, when thy 

awful trust dismayed thee. 

283 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Oh, lift thy hands in appealing for us who, unwill- 
ing, bear 

The burden of God's beloved, lowly labor — and 
care. 

Oh, pity our fruitless tears, to-night, and our 
hearts too tired for prayer ! 



AN ALTAR-LAMP 

shining meek and shining bright, 

An Altar-Lamp, indeed ! 
With ready, tender, helpful light 

For groping wanderer's need. 

Without the temple-walls he stands, 

His heart is sore with sin ; — 
Through pictured saints' outreaching hands 
Thou beckonest him within. 

Into the House of Christ the Lord, 
The wanderer's rest from roaming — 

Where robe and ring and festive board 
Await his longed-for coming. 

Sweet beacon-light, what joy is thine! 

I breathe, in far-off greeting ; — 
So near, so near the Heart Divine, 

Thou tremblest with its beating. 

284 



KATHERINE E. CONWAY 

a life's regret 

Oh, long-lost friend, what have I harvested 

Of thy youth's bloom and mine, with its delight 

Of love and laughter and forerunnings bright? 

Not peace, not hope, but life-long pain instead. 

Sometimes this sleepeth, till I dream it dead — 

When lo ! a word, a look, a soft-drawn breath, 

And into fullest life it wakeneth, 

Ah, me ! unrested and uncomforted 

For all its sleep. How could I let thee stray 

Into the vale of death, thy torch unlit, 

And mine ablaze that might have kindled it? 

Oh, what befell thee on that fearsome way? 

And oh, what greeting would be thine to me 

Could thy voice reach me from eternity ? 



285 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



WILLIAM McINTOSH 

TALISMANS 

Didst ever turn, in critic mood, 

The pages of an album over, 
And mark the blissful platitude, 

Soul-rapt, inane, of friend and lover? 
To see, in feeling's magic fount, 

Forgotten thoughts renew their youth — 
Each heart its world-old vows recount 

Like gems of new-discovered truth? 

Here on this spot where souls have met 

Each passed the word its comrade knew. 
Scant is the tale we least forget — 

Short as a life in death's review. 
Here in the focus of a page 

The feelings of a life-time center; 
Soft vows are told and counsel sage — 

Didactics from a loving mentor. 

Why so alike ? W T hy say they all 

"Be just — Be true — Be fond — Remember " 
Why tell of pleasure's flowers that fall, 

And hope that bides the heart's December? 
Ah, friend ! our hearts are tuned to sing, 

Like wild birds, but a single strain — 
Of all its chords, one pulsing string 

Our passion tells, our joy, our pain ! 

286 



william Mcintosh 

Old is the pledge— " I love but you ! " 

Familiar words the friend's deep vow ; 
Worn hearts have held heaven's hope in view 

From Eden's first despair till now ; 
Yet shall we spurn the flowers, the sky, 

The summer's breath, because 'tis old ? 
Hush hope's sweet whisper, love's dear sigh 

If other lips the tale have told ? 

All that we feel and are and know 

Has been before, shall be again ; 
A myriad hearts have felt the glow 

Of hope and love, dear memory's pain, 
And all that stirs our souls, or tells 

The dreams that fire, the thoughts that thrill ; 
Creation's music ceaseless swells, 

Old themes, old tones, renewing still. 

If earth and sky and changing flood, 

Remingling, lost their separate charm ; 
If life were stilled in field and wood, 

Stars ceased to twinkle, suns to warm ; 
If nature's laws to nought returned, 

To spring again from primal chaos, 
They'd be the same wdiose ways we've learned, 

And some would rule and some obey us. 

Change comes and goes : the new grows old, 
The old, reborn, renews its power; 

Warm hearts are laid beneath the mold, 
Warm hearts are born in every hour. 

287 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And every pulse that's silent now 
Shall in some bosom find its force ; 

Each thought that stirs the busy brow, 

Through silent tongues has held its course. 

These are but echoes that we hear 

Of all the heart can feel or tell ; 
Divinest music to the ear 

Of him who knows the singer's spell ; 
Dear talismans of lover, friend, 

Whose magic rules some answering heart — 
In whose blest sway two spirits blend 

And each finds each its counterpart. 



THE CLOSE OF CARNIVAL 

And now, good night! Let parting words be 
spoken, 
Our week of mime and revelry is past ; 
The music dies away, the spell is broken ; 

O'er the fair scene one lingering look we cast, 
And, sighing, say, Good Night! 

Good night to all the world— to pole and tropic — 
The sun-land's smile, Aurora's ghostly beam ! 

Babel of peace — millenium microscopic, 

Thy voices fail, and from the enchanted dream 
We wake to say, Good Night ! 

288 



WILLIAM McINTOSH 

To walled Cathay and to Japan's fair islands ; 

To storied Rhine and vine-clad hills of France; 
To Spain's fair rivers, Erin's, Scotia's highlands ; 
To languid Turks that dream, and Moors that 
dance — 
Fair scenes, fair maids, Good Night! 

Good night to gypsy seers, the future scanning 

In cards or stars or labyrinthine palm ; 
Good night to elf-land scenes — to breezes fanning 
Our brows from goblin caves, whose pulseless 
calm 
Scarce whispers back, Good Night ! 

Good night to all our mirth and mimic splendor ; 
To mocking tinsel and true gems that shone ; 

Good night to flattery's smile, to whispers tender- 
In quiet nooks — nay, shall these, too, be gone 
When Morning says, Good Night? 

Must all the light go out when we have taken 
Our homeward way and these gay robes laid by? 

Must we to hard reality awaken — 

Forget the melting voice, the speaking eye, 
That told all in " Good Night?" 

Good night, dear scene of joy — half true — half 

seeming ! 

Good morrow, Memory ! thy pale dawn is near, 

Moon of the soul ! o'er our past splendors streaming, 

Hold, precious treasurer, all thou findest here — 

One long, serene Good Night ! 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

aladdin's lamp 

The mad world spins on our finger-tips 

And dazzles the whim of each grown-up boy, 
But once in a while when, in dull eclipse, 

The gay toy falters, its pleasures cloy — 
A gentle whisper from unseen lips, 

And a ghostly touch on the shining ball, 
And lo ! earth opens, and palace and hall, 

And rivers of gems like the soul of the sun, 
And the princess of earth at his feet to fall 

Who the poet's generous spell has won ! 

On autumn fields when the trees are bare, 

On slopes that shudder when snows comedown, 
The buds of a summer that's wondrous fair 

Are folded and hid in the leaves that are brown. 
In hearts that have never won love's dear crown 

Love waits but the magic touch and smile, 
As the white fields wait for the summer air, 
Nor heed how the tempests thunder and frown, 

For they dream of the south wind's kiss the 
while, 

Sweet spell that lasts while the world goes round ! 

For genius and love and life are one — 
And the poets that every age has crowned 

Since the song of the morning stars begun, 
Have found but a voice for the lips that move 

In eloquent kisses but not in song, 
And the fields that have blossomed since earth 
was young. 

290 



WILLIAM McINTOSH 

Guard well yonr treasures of beauty and love, 

Ye singers that carve all things in breath, 
For the secret of Aladdin's lamp is yours, 
And the gleam of your light, like a star's, endures, 
When its source is lost in the shades of death. 



THE PATH OF TEARS 

In every tear a prisoned rainbow lies 

Till tears and smiles shall meet, 
And pain, transfigured by love's ministries, 

The radiant arch complete. 

Sweet Iris ! Not in eyes that ever beam 

With smiles thy light is born : — 
The leaden sunset sees thy promise gleam, 

And not the cloudless morn. 

Love's recompense ! that comes not till we know 

By loss what love has given, 
And bids us, mocked by joy's brief sun below, 

On rain's path climb to heaven. 



HER BIRTHDAY 

When my sweetheart came to town 
Skies were dark and fields were brown. 
In a sheltered nook just one 
Dandelion mourned the sun. 

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POETS AND POETKY OF BUFFALO 

Brooks were silent, earth was numb, 
All the forest aisles were dumb. 
How the slanting rain came down 
When my sweetheart came to town ! 

When my sweetheart came to town, 
She brought all the blossoms down 
From far hills of paradise 
Mirrored in her baby eyes. 
Scents of grape flowers in her hair, 
Breath of rose and lilies where 
Laugh and dimple were at play, 
Making life all holiday, 
Till the sleepy stars looked down — 
When my sweetheart came to town. 

When my sweetheart came to town 
. She w r as tender love's dear crown ! 
Silent in a world of noise — 
Battling winds and romping boys, 
Winning w T ith prophetic wile 
All dominion with a smile. 
What if all the hills were cold 
Storm-swept sea and rock and wold ? ' 
Smiling heaven to earth bent down 
When mv sweetheart came to town. 



292 



REV. PATRICK CRONIN 



REV. PATRICK CRONIN 

GOOD FRIDAY 

Ox this day so drear and lone, 
Hear, Oh Lord ! our plaintive moan, 
See, our tears are falling fast, 
And our hardened hearts, at last, 
Are iu anguish raised to Thee 
Hanging on that bitter tree : 

Parce Nobis Domine. 

By the heavy cross Thou bearest ; 
By the thorny crown Thou wearest ; 
By the perforating lance, 
And that agonizing glance, 
By those nails that pierced Thee there, 
Hear, Oh Jesu ! hear our prayer : 
Parce Nobis Domine. 

Ah ! that scourging by the crowd, 
'Mid their curses fierce and loud ; 
All ! that vinegar and gall, 
And the thrice-repeated fall ! 
Sins of mine, you wrought this day! 
Weeping 'neath the cross, then, pray : 
Parce Nobis Domine. 

Hide me, Jesu, in Thy side! 
There I'll evermore abide, 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Let Thy blood, all precious, roll 
O'er my dark and sinful soul, 
Washing all its guilt away, 
While these tearful eyes still say : 
Parce Nobis Domine. 

Whither, Jesu, shall we go ? 
Where else bring our weight of woe? 
Save to this thrice-holy Rood, 
Red with Thy redeeming blood. 
Here then rest we, here we'll stay 
All this bleak and bitter day : 

Parce Nobis Domine. 



THE PARTING FROM THE MAY 

! pluck some roses fresh and gay 
From garlands of the dewy May, 

Ere she departs ; 
Ere she is borne to the tomb, 
Where withered soon shall be the bloom 

That thrill'd our hearts. 

Through all the long, long winter hours, 
My heart was longing for her flowers, 

And moonlight streams ; 
And friends I loved were with me then, 
I heard their laughter down the glen, 

In vanished dreams. 

294 



REV. PATRICK CRONIN 

And wild birds on the fragrant thorn 
Were singing in the rising morn, 

Sweet songs of praise : 
" Oh God ! " I cried, " Send, send the May, 
Send me again if but one ray 

Of youthful days." 

The May is come, and nearly gone 
But ah ! my spirit still is lone, 

And sighs anew — 
Sighs for the friends that have not come ; 
The hopes deferr'd, the dreams, the bloom 

That once I knew. 

Poor restless heart! cease, cease thy sighing, 
Thou like the waning Spring art dying 

In youthful bloom ; 
Thy early May is long since fled, 
Its hopes and dreams are with the dead, 

Low in the tomb. 



TO A FRIEND ON HER MARRIAGE DAY 

On thy merry marriage day, 

'Mid the blooms and orange spray, 
'Mid the music and the laughter and the song, 

Choicest blessings I implore 

On thy footsteps evermore; 
Be thou happiest of all the wedded throng. 

295 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Heaven guard thy future years 

From the thorns and the tears ; 
May thy heart be ever joyous as to-day ; 

And the radiant sky that beams, 

Let it typify thy dreams 
That shall glad fulfilment find along the way. 

In thy life's fresh dewy morning, 

Thy fond husband's heart adorning, 
Thou art leaving all thy girlhood's home behind ; 

All to wander by his side 

As a blest and happy bride, 
With the plighted troth of loving hearts to bind. 

Blessings then on him and thee, 

Wheresoever you may be, 
In the coming years of sunshine or of shade ; 

And the golden ring that's worn 

On this happy bridal morn, 
May it symbolize the union ye have made. 



SURSUM COKDA 

Cease, cease thy sighs, weary heart! 

Cease, cease those sadd ning sighs ; 
What though these lone autumnal eves 
Bring mournful winds and faded leaves, 
And kindly nature silent grieves 

O'er summer blooms and dyes? 

296 



REV. PATRICK CRONIN 

The fresh young flowers again shall blow, 
The soft winds whisper sweet and low 
To murmuring waters as they flow, 
Reflecting azure skies. 

Forget thy wrongs, much injured heart, 

Forget full many a wrong ; 
Thine is the story often told, 
Of broken trust, of friends grown cold, 
And eyes long rayless 'neath the mould, 

That sparkled at thy song ; 
But warmer friends may yet be thine, 
Fresh hopes may glow, new stars may shine, 
Thou yet mayst quaff that unfound wine 

Thy soul hath craved so long. 

Dream, dream no more, deluded heart; 

Awake and dream no more! 
All silent now thy youthful lute; 
But withered flowers, loved voices mute, 
Are all that's left thee, as the fruit 

Of hours forever o'er ; 
But Death will come, or soon, or late ; 
Then brighter visions may await 
Thine entrance through his darksome gate, 

Beyond life's mortal shore. 

Poor restless heart ! were this but so, 

Ah ! could I only know, 
Then winds might wail and leaflets fall, 
Friends may deceive and vows recall, 

297 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And youthful fancies vanish all ; 

I'd grieve not should they go ; 
For then, dear Lord ! this weary breast 
Would be at Home, among Thy blest, 
And find at last long-sighed-for rest, 

To know no more of woe. 



THE UNFOUND 

Qui fit Maecenas ut nemo. Contentus vivat Hor. Sat. I. i.i. 

When youth and youthful dreams are fair, 
And lovely blooms the tender cheek ; 

When softly waves the sunny hair, 

And eyes tell more than words can speak, 

Why does the young heart restless sigh, 

And pine beneath its native sky? 

And wish for other years to come, 

And long to other climes to roam ? 

But when those riper years appear, 
All blooming like the golden grain ; 

When loving hearts and friends are near, 
To chase away each brooding pain, 

Ah ! still why heaves the lonely breast 

Sighing for future years of rest, 

In hope that joy may meet it yet 

In the calm eve of life's sunset? 

Yet when that eve falls softly down, 
That turns to mist the eagle eye, 

298 



REV. PATRICK CRONIN 

And frosted grow those tresses brown, 
And youthful fancies droop and die, 
Why pensive grows the withered cheek? 
Why would the sad heart fondly speak 
Of youth and joys and friends that once 
Were dear in life's first innocence? 

Ah, Lord ! 'tis that the soul still craves 
Some un found pleasure earth ne'er gives ; 

It dreams and seeks, then sickens, raves 
O'er the fair phantom, and thus lives. 

At rosy morn, 'tis found at noon ; 

At noon 'twill smile with evening's moon, 

Till, cheated thus at every stage, 

The sad heart pines from youth to age. 

Earth's treasures, youth and beauty, fade; 

E'en love's young dream but cheats awhile ; 
Beyond life's sea is the fadeless glade, 

Our Aiden home, where angels smile. 
Ah ! when we reach that deathless shore, 
Nor change, nor care can touch us more ; 
There to the ravished heart appears 
The unfound iov of ea.rthlv years. 



299 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



FRANK H. SEVERANCE 

P'RASCATI * 

Hitherto unpublished. 

We never reached Frascati, where 

The sun his largess poured 
As though, a charmed spot, 'twas there 

The Spring her treasure stored. 

Across the ancient Roman plain 

In antiquary quest 
We passed, we came, we went again, 

And daily said, " We'll rest 

To-morrow, love, upon those heights 

Where sunshine ever lies — 
To-morrow holds the dear delights 

Of earthly paradise ! " 

The fickle gods, in seed-time mood 

Flung showers across the plain 
From where the sentry Sabines stood 

Above the fields of grain. 

Tivoli's olive slopes were swathed 

In sweeping shrouds of mist; 
In tears Tusculum's marbles bathed — 

Frascati smiled, sun-kissed. 

* Extract from a letter : — " During our stay in Rome, in the early spring, 
we often remarked, when on excursions across the Campagna, that no mat- 
ter how wrapped in clouds or rain the landscape might he, the region of 
Frascati, on the Alban hills, seemed always in sunshine. We found no time 
to go there." 

300 



FRANK H. SEVERANCE 

When, o'er the green Campagna wide 

Storm-furies whipt the air 
As though old Roman hosts did ride 

In ghostly battle there, 

Still on Frascati's sunny steeps— 
Whence flowed that Alban wine 

That Horace happy sung — there sleeps 
A radiance half divine, 

As though the gods, to this late age 

Were granting cheerful dower 
For deeds not told on Rome's dark page — 

For love, the world's great power. 

And here, perchance, some hero strove, 

And striving, was forgot ; 
Perchance pure hearts on love here throve 

(Love, like the hills, yields not!) — 

No matter where the clouds may fly, 

Elsewhere the shadow falls ; 
Frascati doth forever lie 

With glory on her walls. 

We never reached Frascati — for it lay 

So near ! and lo, ere long 

O'er seas Frascati's far away 
A memory for a song. 

My sunny citadel thou art, 
My fortress of good cheer! 

301 



POETS AND POETKY OF BUFFALO 

Grant me the largess of thy heart, 
No path in life is drear. 

I am content to sing my way 

The devious journey through, 
Knowing the sunshine day by day, 

Unknown — but loved by you ! 

O'er the bare plains of life I go, 

Glad near thy heart to dwell, 
Until those fairest fields we know 

Where blooms the asphodel. 



NEW YEARS 

Lo, old Time renews his youth, when the ages' 
chimes are rung, 
In glad commemoration of the New Year's 
birth, 
Lo,the world takes heart again, and again Hope's 
song is sung, 
Till Glory, Glory, Glory! goes rolling round 
the earth. 



TO THE WINTER MOON 

Maids call thee fair ! thou art a frigid fright ! 
Infidel phantom, haunting hollow space 
Beyond the wholesome air, wherein no trace 

Of life, heart's blood a-leap, tear-drop, or might 

302 



FRANK H. SEVERANCE 

Of love, doth linger. All thy mirror bright 
Reflects to earth is death, thy gleaming coast 
But girdles in a grave. World-corpse! World- 
ghost! 

What bodes thy spectral mocking of our night? 

Where's Nature's hint of Heaven, for which we 

yearn ? 
Oh planet pale, with shifting courses spun 

Around an earth where love and hope yet burn, 
Shall these dear flames be quenched, when time 

is done ? 
Must fate our labors and our loves in-urn, 
Eternal ashes in some final sun ? 



AUTUMN 

From "The Flight of the Halcyon. " 

Bright Summer folds her fragrant fan 

That swept soft incense through the trees, 

Nor longer heeds the pipes of Pan, 
Their music drained to dirgeful lees. 

Red Autumn burns herself away ; 

Droop dry and sere the aster-blooms, 
And wasted to an ashen grey 

Hang solidago's golden plumes. 

Witch-hazel's pallid flakes of gold, 

Late blown by Autumn's dying breath, 

303 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The withered woodsides coldly hold, 
Like kisses on the lips of death. 

The lingering Spirit of the South 

Yet dallies with dead flowers awhile, 

As sometimes round a death-sealed mouth 
The pleasant lines of life will smile. 



"this greater buffalo 

Hitherto unpublished. 

This Greater Buffalo — what is it, then? 

A plain, grown fruitful with the homes of men. 

Wealth, and his happier elder brother, Toil, 

In myriads here 

Their altars rear, 
Whose streams of reeking incense rise 
To blot the sunshine from the skies, 
And e'en the grace of Heaven's blue despoil. 

A plain, engyved with traffic trails, that bind 

All lands and marts of humankind 

In sympathy and purpose one. 

And, where the city's hands outreach 

An empire's harvests to receive, 
Her towers of trade 
In uncouth silhouette displayed 
Stand, battlemented and arrayed 
In grim, potential, gaunt parade, 

Where the West Wind's chariots run. 

304 



FRANK H. SEVERANCE 

And we, the dwellers on this fecund plain, 
Children of alien lands and divers strain, 
But buoyed by common hope. 

Not all our parent stock 

Reckons from Plymouth Rock. 
The slow-pulsed Teuton, and the peasant Pole — 
Woe worked for centuries to model him — 
With offspring of the earlier emigrant ; 
Italia's ardor and the Norseland calm, 
Strength of the Saxon and the brother Celt 
(Those helped by Luther, these liege to the Pope), 
Here gather in fraternity of man, 
As East from West apart, but all American. 

The New World's grandest marvel, this : to blend 
In one new type the sons of divers strain, 
Begetting here a brotherhood 

Of purer blood 

And stronger brain, 
Of loftier thought and broader view, 
Of clearer vision for the true. 

Cities are built on ashes, and on lives 
Without fruition, save that this survives : 
A field more fallow for the common good, 
A higher level of true brotherhood. 
We Babel-builders with our cry of "great" 

Should sanctify instead 

This dowry of the dead. 
That city only is of high estate 
Whose sons and daughters in themselves are great. 

305 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Art, Science, Letters, — lo, 
Handmaidens of the Worthier Buffalo. 
Theirs still the ministering part — 
The end and mission of all art — 
To wake to new life, and control 
The latent forces of the soul. 



306 



CHARLES S. PARKE 



CHARLES S. PARKE 

A SYLVAN CEREMONY 

"Kneel," whispered the breeze. 

On wistful knees 
In the swaying grass I sank, 

While, all around, 

A soft choral sound 
Swelled from bower and bank. 

Two slender blows, 

And I arose 
Of sordid aims bereft ; 

By the accolade 

Of a green grass-blade 
Ennobled and enfeoffed. 

Now am I Lord 

Of weald and sward, 

Fellow to leaf and flower ! 
Brook, bee, and bird 
Have passed the word 

That owns me from this hour ! 



OVERHEARD IN AUGUST 

The song of Kissisqua, the brooklet, the silver- 
toned babbler, 

307 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Rehearsing the gossip of rushes to broad pebbly 

reaches, 
Anon lightly telling of flower loves left in the glen. 

The song of the westerly breeze, full of sweet 

meadow thoughts, 
Orchard airs, garden fancies, fresh mem'ries of 

plenty afield, 
With soft undertone of lament for the passing of 

summer. 

The song of the cloud as its shadow slips down 

the green vale — 
An exquisite strain, that just floats to the far edge 

of hearing; 
A measure so fine that its melody dies at a look. 



THE LIGHT OF LIGHTS 

0, a glorious thing is the light of the sun, 

Bringing life and joy and love, 
0, a noble thing, when the day is done, 

Is the light of the stars above. 

And a welcome thing is the light whose gleams 

Betoken the journey's end. 
But the light of lights is the light that beams 

For me in the eye of a friend. 

308 



FEEDERICK PETERSON 



FREDERICK PETERSON 

HEREDITY 

I meet upon the woodland ways 

At morn a lady fair ; 
Adown her slender shoulders strays 

Her raven hair ; 

And none who look into her eyes 

Can fail to feel and know 
That in this conscious clay there lies 

Some soul aglow. 

But I, who meet her oft about 

The woods in morning song, 
I see behind her far stretch out 

A ghostly throng— 

A priest, a prince, a lord, a maid, 

Faces of grief and sin, 
A high-born lady and a jade, 

A harlequin — 

Two lines of ghosts in masquerade, 
Who push her where they will, 

As if it were the wund that swayed 
A daffodil — 

She sings, she weeps, she smiles, she sighs, 
Looks cruel, sweet or base ; 

309 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The features of her fathers rise 
And haunt her face — 

As if it were the wind that swayed 

Some stately daffodil, 
Upon her face they masquerade 

And work their will. 



ENVIRONMENT 

High up around the mountain rock 

Wild sweep the lightning and the storm ; 

The spruce grows firm against their shock, 
Stunted and gnarled and rude of form, 

With twisted roots that interlock. 

But by the rivulet far below, 

Up from the rich dark loam and drift, 

Where storms come not and winds are slow, 
Behold the stately willow lift 

And sway long branches to and fro ! 



THE SWEETEST FLOWER THAT BLOWS 

The sweetest flower that blows 

I give you as we part ; 
For you it is a rose ; 

For me it is my heart. 

310 



FREDERICK PETERSON 

The fragrance it exhales, 
(Ah, if you only knew !) 

Which but in dying fails, 
It is my love of you. 

The sweetest flower that grows 
I give you as we part ; 

You think it but a rose; 
Ah, me! it is my heart. 



SOLITUDE 

It is the bittern's solemn cry 

Far out upon the lonely moors, 

Where steel-gray pools reflect the sky, 
And mists arise in dim contours. 

Save this, no murmur on their verge 
Doth stir the stillness of the reeds ; 

Silent the water-snakes emerge 

From writhing depths of water-weeds. 

Through sedge or gorse of that morass 
There shines no light of moon or star ; 

Only the fen-fires gleam and pass 
Along the low horizon bar. 

It is the bittern's solemn cry, 

As if it voiced, with mournful stress, 
The strange hereditary sigh 

Of age on age of loneliness. 

311 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

RESURGAM 

The stars shine clearly in the winter night ; 

Beneath the ice no stream is heard to run ; 
The old green fields are still and waste and white ; 

River and field are now become as one. 

But not for aye shall all this silence be, 

Ere long new life shall stir beneath the snow, 

And we may hear quite softly presently 

The murmur of grasses and the river's flow. 

So, my heart, though thou mayst soon become 
Likewise as cold, and lie as silently, 

It is not long that thou must sleep, be dumb, 
Before again new life shall thrill through thee ! 



VILLANELLE 

Through these long months thy love shall bless 

A lonely roamer over seas, 
So love me more and sorrow less. 

Each tender smile, each past caress — 

How very dear to him are these, 
Whom through long years thy love shall bless, 

Who to his bosom aye shall press 

The new-found flower of love — heart's-ease! 
So love me more and sorrow less. 

312 



FREDERICK PETERSON 

To listening Fates each night address 

A low-voiced prayer upon thy knees, 
That they long years our love may bless. 

Perhaps the pitying Sisters guess 

How Hope the loveless bosom tlees : 
Love, love me more— to sorrow less ! 

Love shall come back in tenderness, 
Across the months, across the seas, 

The steadfast love thy love doth bless; 
So love me more and sorrow less. 



HAPPINESS 

She smiles and sings the livelong day — 

A very happy maiden she, 
Whose blessed fancies charm away 

Her sorrows and her misery. 

How sad and strange the people here ! 

They sigh and shriek and whisper things 
To shun, to loathe, to dread, to fear — 

But all the day she smiles and sings. 

'Tis sweet to know that there can be 

Someone whose woe has taken wings — 

A very happy creature she 

Who all the day long smiles and sings! 

313 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

IN A DAHABIAH 

A desert lies on either hand 

In stern and lone repose ; 
Between the wastes of yellow sand 

The dark Nile flows. 

All through the valley strait and green 

Are wafted faint perfumes 
From fields of clover and sweet-bean 

And lentil-blooms. 

Palm groves and minarets and towers, 

Like dreams before the eye, 
Pass slowly as through drowsy hours 

Our boat drifts by. 

The dark-robed women file in troops 

To fill their water jars, 
Where wind-bound boats lie moored in groups 

With idle spars. 

All day a strident monotone 

Along the shore line steals — 
The noise of wells, the creak and groan 

Of water-wheels. 

Out on the river softly floats 

The boatmen's wailing song, 
Where up and down the swan-winged boats 

Glide all day long. 

Soon sharp against the reddening sky, 
By sunset canopied. 

314 



FREDERICK TETERSON 

Looms iij) remote and shadowy 
A pyramid. 

Strange sounds by curious wading-birds 

Are heard along the bars, 
When night brings forth too fair for words 

Her moon and stars. 

Then lo, a ghost! — Seneferoo 

Comes from his giant tomb 
To guard his Egypt all night through 

On huge Maydoom ! 



THE LOST ARGOSIES 

I've looked in vain and long for them, 
My red-sailed galleys and triremes 

That sailed a sea too strong for them 
'Mid windy paths and ocean streams, 

And now I make a song for them — 
My far-tossed wrecks of dreams. 

They sailed and dear shapes went with them 
Swaying along their rosy wales, 

And comely rowers sent with them, 

Made songs that echoed on their trails ; 

Sang melodies, and blent with them 
Were sounds of oars and sails. 

An island — sirens sing of it — 

They sought with sail and helping oar. 

315 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

No token yet they bring of it, 

Nor of the careless friends they bore, 

Though I am lawful King of it — 
The Isle of Nevermore. 

I've looked in vain and long for them, 
My red-sailed galleys and triremes, 

That braved a sea too strong for them 
'Mid windy paths and ocean streams, 

And now I make a song for them — 
My far-tossed wrecks of dreams. 



AT THE GREEN FIR TAVERN 

Down through the windows open wide, 
To fix the noonday on the floor, 

The fir- trees' gloomy fingers glide — 

They glide and pause and glide once more. 

There sits the round-faced drowsy host! 

Perhaps some phantom from his pipe, 
Floats forth to lull — some smoke-like ghost 

Of Bacchus when the grape is ripe. 

Without, a gray old harper stands, 

And through the noiseless golden noon, 

The strings pour forth beneath his hands 
A wailing, sweet Italian tune. 

A lonely traveller sits and dreams, 

And dreams have filled his soul anew : 

316 



FREDERICK PETERSON 

The mountain wine, the music, seems 
To set his sad heart singing too. 

For Her the harper strikes the strings ; 

The traveller's dream, this song, is Hers ; 
And loud of Her the throstle sings 

Within the twilight of the firs. 



RONDEL 

A little love a little while, 

And then we part to meet no more ; 

For never can old Time restore 
One little sigh, one little smile. 

Before us shall the years defile 
A woful line, a phantom corps ; 

A little love a little while, 

And then we part to meet no more. 

Yet ere we come to reconcile 
Ourselves to destiny — before 

We gaze alone from either shore 

At the waste w r aters mile on mile — 
A little love a little while. 



317 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



GEORGE HIBBARD 

TERRA INCOGNITA 

Ah me ! that it has nearly passed away, 
The grateful mystery, the vague delight, 
Of those dim ancient days when yet there might 

Be undreamed things where sombre Thule lay 

In clamorous seas ; or where 'neath passing day, 
Hung blessed isles sometimes almost in sight; 
Or later where fair Avalon was bright, 

Or shone the golden cities of Cathay. 

Old ocean holds no terrors any more; 

We touch the limits of the farthest zone, 
And would all Nature's fastnesses explore : 

Oh, leave some spot that Fancy calls its own — 
Some far and solitary wave-worn shore, 

Where all were possible and all unknown ! 



318 



CARRIE JUDD MONTGOMERY 
CARRIE JUDD MONTGOMERY 

EVERLASTING LOVE 

Our dear ones sleep awhile, and so 
Their love is hashed to dreams, 

But He who slumb'reth not pours forth 
His love in ceaseless streams. 

The tender arms that hold us fast 
Are human in their strength ; 

Though power of earthly love be great, 
It ebbs away at length. 

The babe is pressed in mother-arms 
The while the mother sleeps, 

And quickly her repose is stirred 
Whene'er her sweet one weeps. 

But Love Divine can never sleep, 

Nor turn His care away ; 
The "everlasting arms" of God 

Are round us night and day. 

0, weary one, why shouldst thou grieve 
Or doubt the care He takes? 

Come, lay thy head upon His breast, 
And sleep because He wakes. 

The Lord thy Keeper e'er shall be, 
Thy soul shall not be moved ; 

0, taste the joy, the perfect peace, 
Of one by God beloved. 

319 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

FETTERED 

I clip thy wings, my bird, 

In kindly love, 

Like as our God above 
Restraineth us, 

When we would soar too high, 

And, sinking downward, die. 

Thou art too weak, my bird, 

Thy strength to try ; 

Wounded thou canst not fly, 
So rest content ; 

God holds us down to earth 

To give new pinions birth. 

Thou must not flutter so, 

But wait in peace ; 

When all thy struggles cease 
Thy wounds will heal ; 

Fll care for thee, my bird ; 

Undoubting, trust my word. 

So when our God above, 

In mercy sweet, 

Restrains our erring feet, 
We murmur sore, 

Nor see His wisdom great, 

While mourning o'er our fate. 

If thou wilt still rebel, 
0, panting heart! 
And seekest still to part 

320 



CARRIE JUDD MONTGOMERY 

From this kind love, 
I'll give thee up to go 
To death and keenest woe. 

But if content, my bird, 

Awhile to rest 

On this true loving breast, 
Till thou art healed ; 

Then shalt thou soar to heaven, 

Thy freedom gladly given. 



MY OLIVE BRANCH 

My heart's an ark 

That rides Life's stormy sea ; 
One little, lonely bark, 
Sailing the waters dark, 

Wond'ringly. 

Hungry for rest, 

It longs at peace to be; 
Weary of fruitless quest, 
Crying in fear suppressed, 

Yearningly. 

O'er the waves cold, 

Ambition flieth free ; 
Flies as the raven bold 
Flew from the ark of old, 

Daringly. 

321 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Flying above, 

He never returns to me ; 
Then soareth faithful love, 
Hast'neth my snow-winged dove, 

Trustfully. 

No rest in sight, 

So homeward turneth she ; 
Staying her hopeless flight, 
Biding the dawn of light, 

Patiently. 

The wild winds cease, 

Again she skims the sea ; 
Bringeth the branch of peace, 
Telling of sweet release, 

Cheeringly. 

And now she's flown 

For aye away from me ; 
My love has found its own 
Resting at Jesus' throne, 

Blessedly. 

The ark will stop, 

The wearied heart be free ; 
Seeing the last storm-drop, 
'Twill touch the mountain top, 

Joyfully. 



322 



CARRIE JUDD MONTGOMERY 

THE SNOWDROP 

0, brave, fair flower, my snowdrop sweet, 
The spring and winter meet. 

Thy gleaming wings are blossomed snow, 

But in the dainty bell below 

The springtide's tender green doth glow, 
0, darling flower of snow and verdure! 

I bend my head a little space ; 
Breathe softly in my face ; — 

Thy tender, curving lips unclose ; 

I drink the breath of scented snows, 

And in deliciousness repose, 
0, darling flower of snow and verdure ! 

Thou art the winter's sweet reply 

To our half-glad good-bye ; 

But underneath thy snowy wing 
We spy a messenger of spring, 
With promise of more blossoming, 

Thou darling flower of snow and verdure ! 

0, may our lives like thee unfold, 

Sweet blossom of the cold ! 

May we rise bravely to endure, 
And be as spotless, fair and pure, 
With promise of a springtide sure, 

Where fairer flowers shall bloom forever. 



323 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

LOVE'S OFFERING 

Hitherto unpublished. 

My heart is like a soft, soft nest, 
Love-lined with gentlest care, 

To hold in tender, joyous rest 
A sweet bird brooding there ; 

A waiting life beneath her breast 
Hath chained her pinions fair. 

0, trembling, unborn hope, lie still 
Within my heart's warm hold ; 

I fain would hush thy eager thrill, 
The world is wide and cold, — 

Thy tiny shell is snug and still, 
Why let thy life unfold? 

With joyous psalm, my fair, fair bird 

Doth softly, sweetly sing, 
Awhile the life, } r et scarcely stirred, 

She hides 'neath patient wing ; 
I listen, lest I lose a word 

The throbbing air may bring ; — 

"Ah, love must live beyond its nest, 
I hide it 'neath these wings 
Until my life burns through my breast, 

And into being brings 
The sheltered hope o'er which I rest 
Until it wakes and sings. 

"The world its glad song cannot chill, 
No soul can e'er forget 

324 



CARRIP; JUDD MONTGOMERY 

That it has known the rapturous thrill 

Love's loving can beget, 
And when at last all life seems still, 

Immortal love loves vet." 



325 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



ADA DAVENPORT KENDALL 

THE LADY OF MY DREAMS 

Like flash of wild bird in the night, 
A tender fleeting thing, — 
Or like a breath of soft sweet air 
When Winter kisses Spring, — 
As falling rose leaves in the rain 
Her fragrant presence seems ; 
She is the answer to my soul — 
The lady of my dreams. 

With wild unrest she fills my heart, 

The tender fleeting thing, 

And yet I would not touch her hand 

Or still her wandering. 

As well imprison opal fire 

Or catch the moon's white beams ; — 

And so I follow with my soul 

The lady of my dreams. 



A SLIGHT MISTAKE 

A dandelion top growing right in my room ! 
A round silvery ball that is just out of bloom. 
It bobs to and fro as if swayed by the breeze. 
Now how did you come in my house, if you please? 
What! aren't you a dandy top? I'm in a whirl, — 
You can't be your mother's own tow-headed girl ! 

326 



ADA DAVENPORT KENDALL 

A. FENCE CORNER 

A bend in the line of the time-browned rail-fence, 
The rugged back-bone of the fields ; 

A bush-covered angle, 

A fragrant green tangle 
That only a fence corner yields. 

Swaying this way and that like a big-sister flower 
Is Matilda Jane's sun-shade of pink, 

While swung 'cross a rail 

Hangs a gleaming tin pail ; 
There'll be berries for supper, I think. 

But it happens just now that a trespasser comes, 
And the fence as a barrier fails. 

A brace for a swing, 

Two long legs make a spring, 
And now side by side hang two pails. 

I'll not spy, but 1 think that the mother at home 
Should make other provisions for tea, 

For the clank of those pails 

As they sway on the rails 
Sounds woefully empty to me. 



OCTOBER 

The ambers slip through my unwilling hands ; 

I am a child, afraid of change and cold ; 
I dread the winter I have never known, 

I fear the partings and the growing old. 

327 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

If one survivor of the year would swing 

Those grim mysterious doors, and for a while 

Return to comfort me, I could take heart 

And face the thing called winter with a smile. 

But here alone, how is a child to know 

That Love goes with one all the days and years 

That 'neath the magic of December's touch 
The ambers turn to pearls instead of tears? 



328 



HENRY A. VAN FREDENBERG 
HENRY A. VAN FREDENBERG 

THE LAND OF LANDS 

The land of lands is Arcady, 
The realm of mount, of mead, of tree, 
Of townless hills, from Mammon free, 
Of ways of sweet simplicity, 

The land above 

All else than love: 
heart ! let's off to Arcady ! 

The men are bluff in Arcady, 
But in their oaths all faith may be, 
And there fails ne'er the pilgrim's plea 
For hearty hospitality ; 

Though plain the fare 

'Tis free gift there : 
heart! let's off to Arcady ! 

The maids are sweet in Arcady, 
More sweet than e'er elsewhere saw ye. 
To them no gallants bend the knee 
In modes of fraudful gallantry, 

For each is queen 

In bower green : 
heart ! let's off to Arcady ! 

The brooks sing aye in Arcady 
In company with bird and bee, 

329 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And kiss the flowers as to the sea 
They glide down grassy slopes in glee ; 

By night and day 

They sing alway : 
heart ! let's off to Arcady ! 

And Pan is king in Arcady ! 
The king of all the kings is he ! 
When all the birds on hill and lea 
Are still, he playeth merrily 

To listeners mute 

His osier flute : 
heart ! let's off to Arcady ! 

Smile all the eyes in Arcady, 
Love all the hearts in Arcady, 
Call all the maids in Arcady, 
Grief hath no hall in Arcady ! 

There Pan gives joy 

That ne'er doth cloy : 
heart ! let's off to Arcadv ! 



THE MAIDEN WHO WINS 
Ballade. 

Ah, maiden sweet with the drooping eye, 
And the roselike cheek and tawny hair, 

And the siren feint of a smothered sigh, 
And the luring ruse of a languid air, 
Thou seemest coy, but the maids who dare 

330 



HENRY A. VAN FREDENBERG 

In the lists with thee are aye outdone ; 

Men turn from the sun's too ardent glare : 
The maiden who wins is she who's won. 

The rose that brushes the passer-by 

May be the sweetest, may be most fair, 
But he who's hurt the thorn will spy, 

And love flies ever from open snare ; 

The half-hid bloom is the one he'd bear, 
The bloom that shrinks from the scorching- sun. 

'Tis the unworn charm will longest wear: 
The maiden who wins is she who's won. 

0, timid blossom, there's none to vie 
With thee in the lists, so have no care. 

Thy prince is coming, he draweth nigh ! 
Nay, flutter not so, but coyly spare 
A first love kiss ! 'Tis his guerdon rare ! 

Such kiss is pure as the prayer of a nun, 
'Tis a kiss by which he'll ever swear : 

The maiden who wins is she who's won. 

ENVOY. 

Rose, ever of open wiles beware ; 

The prey the uncovered snare will shun, 
Never the moss from thy veiled face tear : 

The maiden who wins is she who's won. 



331 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

NO TEARS FOR ME 

Rondeau. 

No tears for .me! Have I my will, 
The friends who bend above me still 
In death will not insult with tears 
Me lying, acheless, with shut ears, 
Unknowing aught of griefs that kill, 
Unfeeling aught of pangs that fill 
The o'erfull cup of human ill. 

My face would say, with calm that cheers 
"No bears for me! " 
Let no eye weep. Let but a rill 
Of sweet regret each friend-heart thrill, 
Because I've done with days and years 
And, as a sailor homeward steers, 
With joy have climbed life's final hill : 
No tears for me ! 



NOTHING ENDS 

KyrieUe. 

The withered rose shall be rose once more, 
The wrecked ship sails again from the shore, 
The bow that's broken anew shall bend : 
Nothing began, and nothing shall end. 

The dead man lives as a man again, 
The Now we know is a once-known Then, . 
The foe that lives is a buried friend : 
Nothing began, and nothing shall end. 

332 



HENRY A. VAN FREDENBERG 

Sand on the desert ? Not so, not so ! 
Tis all that hath been in nature's flow, 
And it doth newly to all things tend : 
Nothing began, and nothing shall end. 

Faded love ? only delusion vain ! 
The fallen rain shall be sometime rain, 
And the arrow shot again shall rend : 
Nothing began, and nothing shall end. 

Mournful death? 'Tis a mockery mad! 
The earth-closed eyes over there ope glad, 
And the earth-furled wings e'er joy ward wend 
Nothing began, and nothing shall end. 



LOVE 
Lai. 

What is love? 0, pray, 
Mortal, can you say 

In truth? 
Is it truth? "Nay, nay!" 
Is it guile ? " Yea, yea ! 

In sooth, 
Cupid's only play 
Is to lead astray 

A youth, 
Or an old man gray, 
In the thornful way 

Of ruth ! 

333 



POETS AND POETEY OF BUFFALO 

That was love alway, 
That is love to-day, 
Forsooth!" 



LOVE AND HATE 
Lai. 

Neighbors Love and Hate 
Once together sate, 

And they 
Made a league to mate. 
After short debate 

The way 
Opened, clear and straight, 
For this freak of fate 

To play ! 

Virelai. 

Ever since that day 
Mortals have been prey 

Elate 
Of these two, who slay 
In a friendly way, 

And wait, 
Love with Hate to weigh, 
Hate with Love to pay — 

Estate 
Men must bear alway ! 

334 



HENRY A. VAN FREDENBE1WJ 

ATLAS 

I pity Atlas ! He must hold the earth 

Forever on his back, with toil and pain ; 
Must nothing know of all its woe and mirth ; 

Must simply stand and bear, with wearied brain, 
The dull gross weight of water, wood, and rock ; 

Stand still and hold the globe at steady rest, 
Nor falter for a moment, lest a shock 

Should start the little human from his nest ! 
If I were Atlas, I would lift my head, 

Would spin the earth from off my bended back, 

And let it go wherever fate might will ! 
But Atlas stands, with look of wearied dread, 

Stands dumbly bent and bears his monstrous 
pack, 

And e'er 1 pity bent-back Atlas still ! 



WHEN I WAS YOUNG 

Rondeau. 

When I was young, ah ! golden days ! 

I strolled where brooks ran minted ways, 
Where grass was deep and air was sweet, 
Where only whims did time my feet, 

Where care at most was but a haze, 

Where all the months were merry Mays, 

I never dreamed of gold or bays, 

My heart with wrong did never beat, 
When I was young ! 

335 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

The birds and squirrels shared my plays 

In dewy mead and woodsy maze, 
And sorrow never did I meet, 
In winter's chill or summer's heat ; 

I knew no spleen, no moody phase, 
When I was young ! 



336 



HENRY 11. HOWLAND 



HENRY R. HOWLAND 

"delight rose 

Died 1769, Aged 22 Years." 
Inscription in a New England Burying-Ground. 

Beneath the grass she softly sleeps, 

Unheeding praise or blame, 
For whom this mossy headstone keeps 

The fragrance of a name. 

A flower that 'neath New England skies 
Found bud and bloom and blight ; 

A brief hour oped to life's surprise, 
Then closed in early night. 

Sweet child, whose smiles in vanished days 
Once gladdened mortal sight, 

What loving lips first spoke thy praise 
And named thee " Heart's Delight " ? 

What tender mother, watching o'er 

Thy girlhood's gentle grace, 
For all her wistful dreams found store 

Of promise in thy face ? 

What lover wooed thee, sweetest maid? 

And grew thine eyes more bright 
The while thou listened, half afraid — 

" I love thee, dear Delight ! " 

337 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Ah ! who can tell ? this mossy stone 

Hides all thy joys and tears ; 
The sweetness of thy name alone 

Outlives the .flight of years. 

And stranger feet now linger near 

This spot of thy repose, 
While fancy frames an idyl here 

Of fair New England's Rose. 



SNOW-BORN 

With Autumn's latest breath there came a chill 

Of brooding sadness, as o'er pleasures dead ; 

And through the sunless day, with silent tread, 
There seemed to pass, o'er vale and wooded hill, 
The footsteps of some messenger of ill. 

Through forest ways with rustling leaves o'er- 
spread, 

The pine boughs whispered low of bodings dread , 
And all the air a mystery seemed to fill. 

But in the shadows of enfolding night, 
From out the bosom of the frosty air, 
Fell a baptismal robe of beauty rare ; 

And when, at kiss of dawn, awoke the earth, 
Each leaf and pine-bough, clad in vesture white, 

Told of the peaceful hour of Winter's birth. 



338 



HENRY R. HOWLAND 

O. W. H. 1809-1879 
For Dr. Holmes' Birthday breakfast, December 1, 1879. 

Springtime and summer past, the frosty days 

Have come which mark his three-score years 
and ten. 

They touch but lightly him, whose jocund pen, 
Catching the gladness of his sunny ways, 
And weaving joy and mirth in blithesome lays, 

Hath rest and joyance wrought for weary men. 

What right to him hath cold December, when 
He weareth still the grace of fragrant Mays ? 

We offer wreaths of song with incense sweet, 
To crown the measure of his happy lot 
With whom the heart of summer ever dwells; 

And deem our budding flowers a tribute meet ; 
These are but of a day ; — he needs them not, 

Whose winter garland is of immortelles. 



MIDWINTER 

Relextant Nature in a frolic mood 

Now T holds her winter revels, and with glee 
Hath decked in merry garb each bush and tree. 

Trooping in mirthful groups along the wood, 

In cloaks of down, or capped with snowy hood, 
Like maskers at a carnival, we see 
Strange forms tricked with fantastic mimicry, 

Where late in autumn nakedness they stood. 

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POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Save where, within the depths of forests gray, 
Whose sombre shades repel the garish day, 

In mystery apart, a Druid band 

Of solemn firs and spreading hemlocks stand. 
With outstretched arms their priestly forms uprise, 
Clad in the spotless robes of sacrifice. 



ROBERT BURNS 
January 25, 1S85. 

Born unto toil and framed in rustic mould, 

There stirred within him, masterful and strong, 
The impulse of a heaven-sent gift of song. 

In strains now blithe, now sad, his verses told 

The simple rugged nature, grandly bold 

In honest manhood's cause to battle wrong; 
The joys that unto homely lives belong, 

Though oft his days were dark and skies were cold. 

What heed we of the wintry winds to-night, 
When hearts within are warm with friendly cheer? 
We sing his songs, — and dwell in scenes more fair, 

Where summer's treasures deck the meadows 
bright, 
Where daisies bloom , and glittering waves are clear, 

By banks o' Bonnie Doon and Brigs of Ayr. 



340 



BESSIE CHANDLER 



BESSIE CHANDLER 

(Mrs. Le Roy Parker ) 

OX A HEAD OF CHRIST 

By Quintin Matsys (Fifteenth Century). 

A grieving face, adown whose hollow cheek 
The bright tears fall from tender mournful eyes ; 
Eyes, sad with never finding what they seek, 
Lips curved by many weary wasting sighs. 

The tear-drops glisten, — frail they seem and slight, 
As though a breath would sweep them into air; 
And yet four hundred years of day and night 
Have passed since first the painter formed them 
there. 

How strange that they should last, those painted 

tears, 
While kingdoms perish, nations fall and rise ; 
Strange that through all the stormy rush of years 
They lie unchanged in those sad, grieving eyes. 

Does He still mourn? The world from Him enticed 
Wanders afar, and will not walk His way. 
patient One! weary, watching Christ, 
Are the tears wet upon Thy face to-day ? 



UNAWARES 

He leaned from out the dusty car, 
And looked far up the village street, 

341 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Where great green boughs met overhead, 
And all the air was soft and sweet — 

He watched, half wistful, half amused, 

The country traffic ebb and flow, 
The farmers' wagons in the shade, 

The village people come and go — 

A little girl stood near the track, 

With cheeks that matched her fresh pink gown, 
She watched the train that blocked her way, 

With quick, impatient little frown. 

He felt the charm of simple things, 

The magic of a drowsy day. 
Then the bell rang, the whistle screamed, 
And he was whirled upon his way. 

He had no thought that summer morn 
That this small village, fresh and green, 

Would come to be his fairy-land, 

Where that young girl would reign his queen. 

Nor did she dream while standing there, 

Impatient of the slight delay, 
This train was an enchanted coach 

That bore her lover far away ! 



HER FACE 

Scant beauty nature gave her ; in disguise 
Rugged and harsh, she bade her go about 

342 



BESSIE CHANDLER 

With face unlovely, save the dark, sad eyes 
From which her fearless soul looked bravely out. 

But life took up the chisel, used her face 
Roughly with many blows, as sculptors use a block. 
It wrought a little while, and lo, a grace 
Fell, as a sunbeam falls upon a rock. 

Across her soul a heavy sorrow swept, 
As tidal waves sweep sometimes o'er the land, 
Leaving her face when back it ebbed and crept, 
Tranquil and purified, like tide-washed sand. 

And of her face her gentleness grew part, 
And all her holy thoughts left there their trace. 
A great love found its way within her heart, 
Its root was there, its blossom in her face. 

Lo, when death came, to set the white soul free 
From the poor body, that was never fair, 
We watched her face and marveled much to see 
How life had carved for death an angel there. 



THE TRYST 

Somewhere there is a stone: I go to meet it, 
And all life bears me onward like a wave, 
Yet when we meet, I shall not know nor greet it, 
For it will come to rest upon my grave. 

Where is it now ? Still in the earth embosomed, 
And waiting for my death to set it free? 

343 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Or 'neath the chisel's touch already blossomed, 
And lacking only in its tale of me? 

Oh, strange that ere my life had a beginning, 
That stone was made, and for no other man, 
And all my years of sorrow and of sinning, 
Are but the end for which its life began ! 

I journey onward toward it, waking, sleeping; 
We may meet soon, or not till I am old, 
But neither love nor hate can stop my keeping 
The solemn tryst that stone and I must hold ! 



OH, GREAT TRUE HEART 1 . 

Oh, great true heart that sailed life's stormy seas 
With fearless courage in the roughest blast, — 
The voyage is over, — you have come at last 
To a safe, sheltered harbor, that will please 
Your sea-worn ship, and give your tired soul ease ! 
I see you still, as often in the past, — 
The fleck of ocean on your brown hair cast, 
The sea-blue in your eyes ! Ah, God's decrees 
Bore you from us this time, as oft before, 
Under "Sealed Orders." With our narrow scope 
We cannot see you on that distant shore, — 
Yet we, left here, with our great grief to cope, 
Think of the stars, that all your life you wore, 
And know the anchor is the sign of hope. 



344 



ROWLAND B. MAHANY 



ROWLAND B. MAHANY 

ROMA ANTIQTJA 

By yellow Tiber's storied stream, 
How seems the pride of man a dream ! 
Here temples old when earth was young 
Their shadows o'er this river flung — 
Lone ruins now of crumbling mould. 
Save Angelo the grim and old, 
Nor doth that even keep in trust 
Its mighty builder's scattered dust. 

Here science, letters, art and song 
Amused the weak, entrenched the strong; 
Here Caesar reared his lofty throne, 
His "Golden House" the lizard's own! 
Here Emperor, Prince, and Prelate slew 
The millions of the false or true, 
Yea, and the chosen of the Lord, 
In the red record of the sword. 

Above the unremembered dead 

The roses bloom where Kings have bled ; 

The stately river winds its way 

As in the old Imperial day ; 

And Nature laughs at man's pretence 

To an immortal permanence. 

Oh, Love, thy dreams can never die. 

Still shines the blue Italian sky ! 

345 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

PALM SUNDAY 

Dear Lord, out of innumerable ills 

Thy grace hath led my feeble steps and slow, 
Vouchsafed to me Thy loveliness to show, 

And given that peace, unpriced, whose gladness 
thrills 

My spirit, so that all its essence wills 

The world no more, but only Thee to know : 
Before Thy feet of glory palms I strow, 

While my rapt heart with high Hosanna fills. 

To-day Jerusalem hails Thee divine, 

Yet storm of death awaits to rend the calm ! 

What, then, if grief and bitterness like Thine 

To me shall come, I shall not lack this balm, — 

To know, that if Thy way of peace be mine, 
The amaranth is sweeter than the palm ! 



ISABEL 

Isabel, 

Whom I love well ; 
If my soul's soul's voice could reach you, 
It would tell you, it would teach you, 
In the tomb where you are sleeping, 
That fond memories I am keeping 
Of the love that once you cherished, 
Of the love that hath not perished. 

346 



ROWLAND B. MAI1AXY 

Not the Past 
Which did not last, 
Nor the smiling of the morrow, 
Nor the Present with its sorrow, 
Can avail to dull the aching 
Of the heart, when it is breaking 
With the thoughts of all your sweetness, 
In the days of love's completeness. 

Fare you well, 
Isabel, 
For the years we cannot number, 
Soft and dreamless be your slumber ; 
Where the oriole is winging, 
And the southern flowers are springing, 
Till hereafter I shall meet you, 
And with tears and kisses greet you. 



OZYMANDIAS 

Shelley, to show that of all earthly things 
Pride is the emptiest, recounts that where 
Old Nilus dreams, a Pharaoh builded there 

His statue, whose long-ruined base still flings : 

"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings, 

Gaze on my works, ye mighty, and despair"; 
While o'er the fragments which the sands leave 
bare, 

The desert wind a mocking requiem sings. 

347 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And yet, methinks, this King was wise to render 
Unto himself such heritage of glory ; 
What matters now to him if none rehearse 
His wars, his loves, his triumphs and his splendor, 
Or anything that graced his olden story, — 
He lives immortal still in Shelley's verse. 



348 



JULIA DITTO YOUNG 



JULIA DITTO YOUNG 

LIVINGSTON COUNTY 

dear New Scotland, why so long have I 

Discoursed of very trifles, and delayed 
To sing the vistas that within thee lie, 

The dark clear brooks, the forest's moss and 
shade, 
The gentle hill-slopes bathed in purple mist 

The scarlet-jeweled orchard's fragrant yield, 
The trees by Autumn into glory kissed, 

The wide gold stretch of many a fertile field? 

Behold the reason: Truly overmuch 
I worship thee, and as a lover grows 

Bewildered, silent, at his lady's touch, 

While all his mind in passion's channel flows, 

When I thy zephyrs breathe, thy streamlets drink, 
And see thy skies bend o'er me blue and bright, 

1 feel so much I not at all can think, 

My heart so dances that I cannot write! 



PERFECTION 

There is an instant at the end of day 

Wherein the western sky so richly glows 

We wish it might unaltered ever stay 
In such blent harmony of gold and rose. 

349 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Life ! I pray thee cease tlry rapid flight, 
Nor haste to terminate this hour supreme, 

But let me, ere the fall of gloomy night, 
One moment linger in the sunset's gleam. 



GRIMM S FAIRY TALES 

Three times the book aloud I read 
At eve by Laurie's little bed, 
And grew to love as well as he 
The stories of the grateful bee, 
Twin brothers, lions, hunters, hares, 
Kings' daughters, fiddlers, dancing bears, 
Gnomes, foxes, tailors, golden lakes, 
Glass mountains, castles and white snakes. 

And more than pleasure 's my reward ; 

Suggestions so the tales afford, 

That now whene'er I stranded be 

For image or for simile, 

The picture of a haunted wood, 

Of sad enchanted maidenhood, 

Of dragon battling with a knight, 

Of bandit cave's alluring light, 

Or some such fantas}^ will rise 

Before me, and my need supplies, 

And Laurie, when 'tis read to him, 

Delighted cries, " Why, that's from Grimm ! " 



350 



JULIA DITTO YOUNG 

A RAINY NIGHT 

Black against the murky sky 

Oak trees toss their branches bare, 
While the last leaves riven fly 

On the wet and whirling air ; 
Rain like swift descending lash 

Beats the cold and sodden sward, 
And the wild keen lightning flash 

Cuts the darkness like a sword. 

God be thanked for night and storm ! 

'Tis a blest relief to know 
Nature hath the power to form 

Other things that suffer so, 
Things besides my tortured heart, 

Torn with infinite despair, — 
Tempest, I of thee am part, 

And thy maddened ragings share ! 



IN THE CITY 

I long to go into the country to-day, 

To pass the mill with its ceaseless mutter, 

And follow the stream full of boulders gray, 
Wherever the kingfishers poise and flutter ; 

To ramble into the grand old wood 

With its sweet warm scents, and find out 
whether 
The maples are yellowing as they should 

In these soft hours of autumn weather ; 

351 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

To gather the golden-rod and fern, 

To mark in the brook the trout's swift skim- 
ming, 
To wander along the lane and learn 

If a lilac haze the hills is dimming. 

But better methinks the dusty town, 

Where love is, than the glorious weather 

And rustle of foliage, scarlet and brown, 
Unless, dear heart! we could go together ! 



GOOD-WILL 

I thank Thee, God, no drop of gall 
Ferments and curdles in my heart ; 

The sweet earth's wide enough for all,- 
I grudge not any man his part. 



EXTRACT FROM SAVILLE 

Is it a chalice of shining gold, the cup of thy pres- 
ent delight, 

Or only a grape-leaf, filled from a spring, dripping 
with diamonds white? 

Drink thou as though it were proffered of gods, 
e'en as the draught were thy last, 

For to-morrow, mayhap, the water and wine and 
the strong sweet thirst will have passed. 

352 



JULIA DITTO YOUNG 

FROM "BLACK EVAN" 

Then slowly, timidly she did extend 
A little hand, which Evan caught and kissed 
Three times,— the first, as some evangelist 
Reaching at last a distant long-sought shrine 
Might reverently kiss reliques divine ; 
Next, lightly as a sea-gull's doubting wing 
Skims o'er the billows green and glittering, 
Knowing too well a fathomless abyss 
Of yearning lies beyond the futile bliss 
And false allurement of a single kiss ; 
Last, as the humming-bird within the bell 
Of odored honeysuckle loves to dwell 
And languid lingers, deeming all the world 
Is by those fragrant petals over-curled — 
So Evan kissed her hand. 



EXTRACT FROM " GLYNNE S WIFE 

Garnet's eyes, 
Brown, bright, and clear, were as a woodspring's 

rise, 
And her soft cheeks were such a hue as glows 
In the pure pinkness of a perfect rose — 
Her robe, the ruby of a royal wine, 
Was seeded thick with burning almandine, 
And all unseen there lurked beneath her glove 
Glynne's pledges, one of marriage, one of love, 

353 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And she was girdled, from the snowy arm 

To the red satin slipper, with the charm 

That compasses as in a golden shower 

A woman who is in the apex-hour 

Of life, whether 'tis hushed and unconfessed, 

The passion fluttering within her breast, 

Or whether 'tis a diadem, a star 

Bound on her brow where proudest jewels are — 

Dames ! damsels ! ponder well the truth hereof : 

You, to be lovable, need but to love ! 



354 



MARK S. HUBBELL 



MARK S. HUBBELL 

TO ONE DEPARTED 

Ah, nevermore shall grey hair meet my sight, 

But thy bright locks shall rise, 
And the fair rays of Heaven's reflected light 

Seem shining from thine eyes. 

Oh, dear dead eyes, could I but feel their beams 
Fall really on my sadden'd sight again 

I might the better bear night's bitter dreams 
And memory's waking pain. 

I see thee walking on the city street, 

Thy gentle phantom o'er the pavements glide, 
And often in the dark I turn to greet 

Thy dear face at my side. 

I waken in the long night's silent hours 

And travel with thy hand in mine once more 

Through boyhood's sunny springtime's glades and 
flowers 
O'er manhood's storm-swept shore. 

Thou art not dead ; perchance, could I but know 
But once the smile that kindles on thy lips 

I would not weep that all the clouds o'er-blow 
That held thee in eclipse. 

Death gives thee back, perchance, thy graces lost 
In shining garments of immortal life, 

355 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And grants fruition to the hopes long crossed 
Of daughter, maiden, wife. 

So wait we, patient, knowing mortal years 
Vanish where thou art, as a watch at night — 

That thy enfranchised spirit, purged of tears, 
Waits for us in the light ; 

That thou art only cured of age and dread 
And earth's mortality ; that thy glances see 

And leap to meet those of thy blessed dead 
And all is well with thee. 



AT THE END 

Crcesus, the lord of countless gold is dead ! 
Twine chaplets for the cold and pulseless head, 
And 'mid the purple on the marble brow, 
Set a, kind act to shine a jewel now. 
For, as some lofty A^ane, the sun once set, 
Catches reflections of its glory yet, 
So o'er the dead a good deed glimmering far, 
Reflects life's sun and blazes like a star. 



THE ANGEL SANTA CLAUS 

We all know God hath angels, both beautiful 

and bright, 
Who wait about His jasper throne forever, day 

and night, 

356 



MARK S. HUBBELL 

And one is christened Mercy, and one is christened 

Love, 
And one that bears the name of Faith stands 

very high above ; 
And Charity is also one in foremost ranks, because 
He typifies the holiest of all his Master's laws. 
And others, too, there are, I ween, whose wings 

are white and strong — 
Who bear the balm of healing to the bleeding 

wounds of Wrong. 
The angel, Patience called, who brings the cool- 
ing breath of prayer 
To fevered hearts, may well stand high amid the 

hosts of air. 
Yet there's another, he of whom with loving pen I 

write, 
Whose deeds must change the crimson's stain of 

sin to purest white. 

He wings his way to earth and grief through 

whelming mists and cloud 
But once a year, yet all his acts should make his 

Master proud ; 
Straight from the meadows asphodel and from 

the fields of bliss 
He comes, the children of the world to waken with 

a kiss. 
He weaves within their little brains the tapestries 

of love 
That make the earth an Eden, like the shining 

lands above. 

357 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Just once a year his loving deeds with rapture fill 

the world — 
At Christmastide, when cannons hush and battle 

flags are furled ; 
In mansions rich and hovels low, in hospital and 

street, 
He brings to prattling baby lips the legend, 

strange and sweet, 
Of him who only once a year, with healing on his 

wings, 
Brings all the joy of heaven to the sphere of 

earthly things. 

And what to older ones? Ah, me! this saint 

whose deeds I praise, 
Makes one short era golden in the roll of leaden 

days, 
And pours upon their arid hearts, hot with the 

blight of pain, 
Injustice, wrong, and bitterness, kind heaven's 

soothing rain. 
And calls back childhood's bounding pulse, and 

childhood's loyal creeds, 
When life was void of evil thoughts and rich with 

gentle deeds ; 
And gives them wine of perfect joy from jeweled 

cups to sip, 
Like water in the desert on the pilgrim's parching 

lip. 
The saint I plead for, gentle Lord, fulfills thy per- 
fect laws, 

358 



MARK S. HUBBELL 

The angel of compassion kind, that babes call 

Santa Claus. 
Oh, crown him angel by Thy side, and give him 

largest praise, 
Who makes an epoch golden in each year of 

leaden days. 



359 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



WALTER STORRS BIGELOW 

GOETHE, THE POET 

Philosophy and Dream 

The fire from heaven caught 
As Goethe thought. 

The forest, hill, and stream 

With answering voices woke 
When Goethe spoke. 

Art turned a listening ear 
Away from all the throng 
To Goethe's song. 

No mystery is here : 

The thoughts of day and night, 

The river, wood, and height, 

The fane of art, 
All in their turn, desired — 
Were worshipped, loved or fired 

By Goethe's heart. 



THE SONG-SPARROW 

I woke at night, or just before the day, 
And tossed, disquieted by many things, 

Till sweetly came, through darkness turning grey, 
A bird's new song, that fluttered like its wings. 

360 



WALTER STORRS BIGELOW 

bird, unconscious that you sang for me, 
earliest ray, indifferently cast, 

Thine is the song I hear, the light I see : 
All songs, all glory, shall be mine at last. 



CROSSING THE MEADOW 

White, overhead, 
Sails the puffed fabric of a cloud ; 
The wind's caress revives my spirit, bowed 

With dusty cares 
That soil his feet who in the roadway fares. 

Ten thousand blades of cooling green — 
The fresh-blown, clustering innocence between, 
Seeing, I said : 
" Pure blossom, tinged with heavenly blue, 
My heart's dull chambers welcome you." 

I pass along, 
And all my inward powers awake to song ; 

Beneath my tread, 
Even the slight springing of the sod 
Sends my soul upward unto God. 



361 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



AGNES SHALLOE 

TRAILING ARBUTUS 

When circling robins cloud the lea and charm the 

waking wood, 
And Pan, beneath the budding tree, pipes with the 

singing brood ; 
When field and meadow, green and fine, their 

beauteous gems unfold, 
And softly through the shadows shine the violets, 

blue and gold ; 
The mandrake with its jeweled heart, the trillium, 

fragile flower, 
And dearer one that dwells apart far in the dreamy 

bower; 
'Tis where the tangled brushwood sleeps, deep in 

the forest glooms, 
The loveliest flower of spring-time peeps, the sweet 

arbutus blooms. 

We feel its presence in our quest ; its essence thrills 

the wood, 
Close, close to earth its buds are pressed in dreary 

solitude. 
beauteous spring, elusive, fleet, in robe celestial 

drest, 
All other flowers be at thy feet, arbutus on thy 

breast. 

362 



AGNES SHALLOE 

The oriole weaves its fairy home, and with its toil 

it sings ; 
A wizard hand bedecks the loam with rare and 

radiant things ; 
But where the tangled brushwood sleeps, deep in 

the forest glooms, 
The loveliest flower of spring-time peeps, the sweet 

arbutus blooms. 



CROSSING THE DESERT 

Across the billowy arid sand 

With fever flushed, they press their way ; 

Full many a lurid sun by day — 

The night its cycle oft hath spanned — 

Since slowly to the faded past 

Sank tower and minaret at last, 

Of Egypt's garden land. 

The pangs of thirst, the fierce simoon — 

The patient traveller, well knows he. 

Through weary leagues of mystery 

By darkest night or light of moon, 

With longing eyes grown strained and dim, 

He scans the vague horizon's rim, 

At midnight as at fiery noon. 

And lo ! Upon the shadowy line 
Appears at length the palm-tree's crown, 
Where each may lay his burden down, 
By leaping spring, in grove divine ; 

363 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And rest, forgetting pain and fear, 

And quaff the water crystal clear, 

To him more sweet than priceless wine. 

And so, dear heart, for you and me 
Is life a doubtful desert way ; 
Beset with fears by night — by day — 
Beyond its bounds we can not see ; 
In summer heat or winter chill, 
As pilgrims here we journey still, 
And dream of glory yet to be. 

And now and then by want or woe 
The brightest day is turned to night ; 
With faith alone for guiding light, 
We move upon our journey slow. 
But soon, ah soon ! shall fade our ills, 
And fair across the frowning hills 
Shall open heaven's eternal glow ! 



IN SUMMER DAYS 

Here in the garden beautiful, 

0, Friend of the long ago, 
The violets bloom in the sun-flecked gloom, 

And riotous roses blow. 
The lily swoons in its fragrance, 

And jasmine frail and sweet 
Clambereth bold as in days of old 

Over our rustic seat. 

364 



AGNES SHALLOE 

The bee is lazily scorning 

The poppy's scarlet and gold, 
And, idlest of things, a spider wings 

Over the scented mold ; 
Crickets are blithely chirping, 

And a splendid butterfly rests 
Where the dragon-fly sails slowly by 

The syringa's starry crests. 

Here is the old sun-dial ; 

Dear, on its time-worn face 
'Tis mine to learn the message stern 

Which the fleeting hours retrace. 
Over it wings the swallow, 

Beneath are the grasses wet 
With silver dew, the moments through, 

Like tears of the soul's regret. 

Thou, who art nearest, dearest, 

In thoughts that are sweet to pain, 
Come from the deep of the year's long sleep, 

Heart of my heart again ! 
Glad as the spirit of summer, 

Love, we shall wander slow, 
As in perfumed haze of by-gone days 

And bloom of the long ago. 



365 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



SOPHIE JEWETT 

(Ellen Burroughs.) 
A FRIENDSHIP* 

Small fellowship of daily commonplace 
We hold together, dear, constrained to go 
Diverging ways. Yet day by day I know 

My life is sweeter for thy life's sweet grace ; 

And if we meet but for a moment's space, 

Thy touch, thy word, sets all the world aglow. 
Faith soars serener, haunting doubts shrink 
low, 

Abashed before the sunshine of thy face. 

Nor press of crowd, nor waste of distance serves 
To part us. Every hush of evening brings 
Some hint of thee, true-hearted friend of mine ; 

And as the farther planet thrills and swerves 

When towards it through the darkness Saturn 

swings, 
Even so my spirit feels the spell of thine. 



* From "The Pilgrim and other Poems. 1 ' Macmillan & Co., 1896. All rights 
reserved. 



366 



SOPHIE JEWETT 

SIDNEY LANIER* 

Died September 7, 1881. 

The South wind brought a voice; was it of bird? 

Or faint-blown reed? or string that quivered 
long? 

A haunting voice that woke into a song 
Sweet as a child's low laugh, or lover's word. 
We listened idly till it grew and stirred 

With throbbing chords of joy, of love, of wrong ; 

A mighty music, resonant and strong ; 
Our hearts beat higher for that voice far-heard. 

The Southwind brought a shadow, purple dim, 

It swept across the warm smile of the sun ; 

A sudden shiver passed on field and wave ; 
The grasses grieved along the river's brim. 

We knew the voice was silent, the song done ; 

We knew the shadow smote across a grave. 

*From "The Pilgrim and other Poems." Macmillan & Co., 1896. All rights- 
reserved. 



"IF SPIRITS WALK " 

If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow 
The slant footpath where we were wont to go, 
Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way 
To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray, 
Sheer, graveled slope, where vetches straggling 
grow. 

367 



POETS AND POETKY OF BUFFALO 

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow, 
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow ; 
I would not come thy dear eyes to affray, 
If spirits walk. 

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low, 
And when their breath plays with thy bright hair 
so 
As some one's fingers once were used to play — 
That hour when birds leave song, and children 
pray, 
Keep the old tiyst, sweetheart, and thou shalt 
know 

If spirits walk. 

* From " The Pilgrim and other Poems." Macmillan & Co., 1896. All rights 
reserved. 



THE SOLDIER w 

"Non vi si pensa quanto sangue costa." 

Paradiso XXIX., 91. 

The soldier fought his battle silently. 

Not his the strife that stays for set of sun ; 

It seemed this warfare never might be done ; 
Through glaring day and blinding night fought he. 
There came no hand to help, no eye to see ; 

No herald's voice proclaimed the fight begun ; 

No trumpet, when the bitter field was won, 
Sounded abroad the soldier's victory. 
As if the struggle had been light, he went, 

Gladly, life's common road a little space; 

368 



SOPHIE JEWETT 

Nor any knew how his heart's blood was spent ; 
Yet there were some who after testified 

They saw a glory grow npon his face ; 
And all men praised the soldier when he died. 

* From " The Pilgrim and other Poems." Macmillan & Co., 1896. All rights 
reserved. 



A SMILING DEMON OF NOTRE DAME* 

Quiet as are the quiet skies 
He watches where the city lies 
Floating in visions clear or dim 
Through sun or rain beneath his eyes ; 
Her songs, her laughter, and her cries 
Hour after hour drift up to him. 

Her days of glory or disgrace 

He watches with unchanging face; 

He knows what midnight crimes are done, 

What horrors under summer sun ; 

And souls that pass in holy death 

Sweep by him on the morning's breath. 

Alike to holiness and sin 

He feels nor alien nor akin ; 

Five hundred creeping mortal years 

He smiles on human joy and tears, 

Man-made, immortal, scorning man ; 

Serene, grotesque Olympian. 

* From " The Pilgrim and other Poems." Macmillan & Co., 1896. All rights 
reserved. 

369 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 
THEODORE FRANCIS MacMANUS 

AMERICA, 1901 

0, can't you see her standing at the portals of the 

world — 
With her eager eyes exulting in the flag she's just 

unfurled, 
The favorite of Fortune, and the mistress of the 

Fates, 
The heir of all the ages, flinging back the futile 

gates 
That frown upon her progress, and dispute the 

mighty power 
Of a goddess come to realize the glory of her 

dower! 
She is young, and she is fearless ; her heart is full 

of fire, 
And restless with the urging of unsatisfied desire ; 
She has turned her back on darkness, and her brow 

is bathed in light 
That shall stir the sodden sleepers of the lands 

that live in Night ; 
She will falter, she will stumble, she will fall, and 

she will sin — 
She will suffer for her folly, she will rise and she 

will Win ! 
0, Thou who holdest nations in the hollow of Thy 

hand, 

370 



THEODORE FRANCIS MacMANUS 

Make plain to us Thy purposes, and help us under- 
stand 

The danger of our daring and the weakness of our 
strength — 

The law of life, immutable, which layeth low at 
length 

The proudest of Thy peoples, when pride and lust 
combine 

To rob Thee of the glory and the tribute which is 
Thine ! 



A YULE-TIDE PLEDGE 

Because that True Love in a crib was born this 

day, 
Nothing but love I'll give to those who cross my 

way ; 
Because that True Love hath been Brother unto me, 
Brother to all my fellow-men this day I'll be. 

Because that True Love bore the smart and sting 

of cold, 
Nothing my heart contains of warmth will I with- 
hold- 
So, from my deepest heart-of-hearts, 0, dear friend, 

take 
My full-and-free, unfettered love, for His sweet sake. 



371 



POETS AND POETKY OF BUFFALO 
william Mckinley 

September 14, 1901. 

Hot with the tears that choke and blind, 
Bear with us, Lord, till we be resigned. 
Our hearts are human — he was our chief — 
Bear with the anger that mars our grief. 
Time ! 0, Lord, till the fight be won — 
Time, to falter " Thy will be done ! " 

Made kind by sorrow, with joy elate, 
We had thought, 0, Lord, to watch and wait 
Till the mists of doubt had cleared away, 
That we might come to his couch and say 
"Son of the people, arise and see 
A nation made one by sympathy." 

And now, 0, Lord, we are at his bier — 
We cry aloud, but he cannot hear ! 
Our love unspoken, our message lost, 
In heart and brain we are tempest-tossed. 
Time! 0, Lord, till the fight be won — 
Time, to falter " Thy will be done ! " 



A PLEDGE ! A PLEDGE ! 

The sound of the drum and bugle we have followed 

around the world ; 
Aye, cold and stark, we have left our mark, where- 

ever a flag's unfurled ; 

372 



THEODORE FRANCIS MacMANUS 

Was there ever a wrong to be righted— there was 

the eager Celt — 
Southern morass, or mountain-pass, desert, or 

plain, or veldt; 
Never a land received us that called for help in 

vain ; 
We know our debt, and we don't forget— we pay 

and we pay again. 
We were there in rags and tatters, when Freedom's 

fight was won — 
First in the field, and last to yield, with glorious 

Washington. 
Read the rolls of the army —this is the truth you'll 

glean — 
In the heart of the hell of shot and shell, there was 

the flag of green ! 
Yes, we have been good fighters— but what of our 

native land ? 
What have we done, and what have we won— how 

does the record stand ? 
We have fought for our new-found kinsman— the 

homes that have made us free ; 
Have we nothing left, for the Isle bereft— our mother 

beyond the sea ? 
We have even fought for England — is there nothing 

that we can do 
To clear the stain, and prove again, that Irish 

hearts are true ? 
What shall we say — shall it be a cheer, to the boys 

we've left behind — 

373 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

A ringing cheer with a lurking tear, of the heart-felt 

Irish kind ? 
Aye, give it, lads, with all your voice, and all your 

soul-strength too, 
God and the Right — an oath to-night — come, 

pledge yourselves anew ! 



374 



CHARLES CARROLL ALBERTSON 



CHARLES CARROLL ALBERTSON 

AT THE GRAVE OF JOHN BROWN 

Conquering victim ! 
On thy pain-scarred brow 
Laurels rest that kings might covet, 
What is failure now ? 

Strangled hero ! 
To thy tomb, a shrine, 
Come the children of the freedman, 
Quenchless fame is thine ! 



SATIETY 

Care-free, I wandered in the forest wild, 
With eyes all open to the glorious Spring, 

For keen of sight and sense is every child, — 
And I was young, and Life was everything. 



Sated and self-absorbed, I walk the wood to-day, 
Nor see a flower, nor hear a thrush's song, 

Nor mark a single splendor in the way, 
For Life is worn, and Time is over-long. 



375 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



CHARLOTTE ROSALYS MARTIN 

SPRINGTIME 

Light and life are everywhere, 
All the world is passing fair, 
Bud and blossom scent the air. 

Rosy -tinted is the sky, 
Swiftly flits a song-bird by, 
Perfumed breezes dying sigh. 

Now o'erhead the first star gleams, 
Softly mystical it seems, 
Venus, star of Lovers' dreams ! 



AUTUMN 

Brooding sadness everywhere; 
Murky darkness fills the air ; 
Lifeless, gnarled, the trees are bare. 

Pallid is the bitter sky ; 
Sudden sweeps a night-bird by ; 
Hark ! the shriek-owl's boding cry. 

Now o'erhead a meteor gleams ; 
Portent dire its flashing beams ; 
Azrael's falling star it seems. 

376 



WILLARD E. KEYES 



WILLARD E. KEYES 

ANTICIPATION 

Sweet rose and mignonette 
Deep in the snow drift lie ; 

The yellow-banded bee 

No more goes blundering by, 

And the bitter wind drives fast 
Beneath the low gray sky. 

But ever as of old 

Will come the golden June, 
And rose and mignonette, 

All through the sultry noon, 
Will bask and nod and drowse, 

Lulled by the bee's low tune. 



377 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



WALTER CLARK NICHOLS 

AWAKENING 

With brain o'erworn, with heart a summer clod, 
With eye so practised in each form around — 
And all forms mean — to glance above the ground 
Irks it, each day of many days we plod 
Tongue-tied and deaf, along life's common road ; 
But suddenly, we know not how, a sound 
Of living streams, an odor, a flower crowned 
With dew, a lark upspringing from the sod 
And we awake. 0, joy of deep amaze! 
Beneath the everlasting hills we stand, 
We hear the voices of the morning seas, 
And earnest prophesyings in the land, 
While from the open heaven leans forth at gaze 
The encompassing great cloud of witnesses. 



BACCALAUKEATE HYMN 

Harvard, June 13, 1893. 

Help us, God, as we in quest 
Of truth the world roam through, 

To know that those men love her best 
Who to themselves are true. 

Give us humility ; the sense 
Of tearful sorrow give ; 

378 



WALTER CLARK NICHOLS 

Make Thou a noble permanence 
Of every day we live. 

We thank Thee for Thy nurturing care, 

Which we but faintly ken, 
And murmur fervently in prayer, 

God grant that we be men ! 



379 



POETS AND POETEY OF BUFFALO 



HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON 

THE RECLUSE 

Hitherto unpublished. 

In a hidden nook I lie 
And the world's life passes by ; 
Every tide of every zone 
Brings me something for my own ; 
Every passing wind I glean, 
Lying in my nook alone, 
Seeing all and all unseen, 
Knowing all and all unknown. 

Over me from pole to pole 

The organ's slumb'rous surges roll. 

The tinkle of the light guitar 

Sweeps past me like a dream of sound, 

With notes of bugles blown afar 

And mountain horns in echoing round, 

And showers of bird-notes quick and true 

Crossed with a dash of morning dew. 

Over me from zone to zone 
Subtle fragrances are blown — 
Spice of frankincense and myrrh, 
Warmth of rose and balm of fir, 
And a stronger breath than these 
Spray- wet from the tossing seas. 

380 



HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON 

Round my heavens Day and Night 
Follow on each other's flight ; 
Phantom crescents wax and waste, 
Storms sweep clear the vaulted arch, 
Clouds their fleecy curtains cast 
O'er the planets' stately march; 
Men, impetuous and fierce- willed, 
Here destroy and there upbuild, 
Wrest from Fate the World's command, 
Hold a momentary sway. 
Giant Time with careless hand 
Blots the century like a day ; 
Cities crumble into sand, 
Empires lie in vast decay, 
And the unchanging stars look down 
On the unchanging mountain crown. 



Human hearts that laugh and mourn, 
Love and labor, hate and scorn, 
My involuntary arm 
Moves to shield them from alarm. 
And I reach my hand to bless, 
And I smile because they smile, 
And I thrill with their distress, 
And I mock myself the while, 
For I am amid the host 
Like an unembodied ghost, 
And as heedlessly they pass - 
Their own shadow in the glass. 

381 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

In my hidden nook I lie 
And the world's life passes by, 
And the world's death at my feet 
Lies like ashes lacking heat. 

Hearts whose fire did warm the past ; 
'Twixt your pulses' troubled beat, 
And their stillness here at last, 
—And their stillness here,— there lie 
Worlds of question — no reply. 



THE UNWELCOME THOUGHT 

Hitherto unpublished. 

Oh ! sullied summer, quickly close 

And all that saw it, cease to be! 
And drop your last leaf, ragged rose ! 

Between my thorny thought and me. 

And hasten, world, upon your way 

Till other stars upon us shine ! 
And night and day and March and May 

Divide me from that thought of mine ! 

And strange grow all I knew of late 

So this one thought may grow as strange! 

Change, Hope and Hate ! change, Faith and Fate ! 
Change, Clime and Time and all things, change ! 

And give the goodlier being birth 

To tread our grass-grown grave-scars o'er, 
And say, "In this primeval earth 

There never throbbed a thought before." 

382 



HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON 

THE WOOD-MAID 

Why will ye bring me your bold, brown faces, 
Crowned with the leaves of my plundered wood ? 

Why will ye lurk in the low, leafy places, 
Peering and jeering, and wooing me rude? 

You frighten the bee from the linden blossom, 
The doe in the dell, and the shy wood-dove, 

The hare in its haunt, and the heart in my bosom, 
With all your talking of love, love, love. 

Here I live merry until you beset me ; 

What the birds sow is the harvest I reap. 
Here I live merry till you come to fret me ; 

The heart in my bosom I keep safe asleep. 

With the wit of your words to your will you 
would bind me 
As you bind the wings of the meek wood-dove ; 
In a snare, like a hare, you would wound me and 
wind me, 
And bind me to the service of love, love, love. 

Is love as sweet as the bloom the bee knoweth ? 

Is love as deep as the deep streams run ? 
Is love as pure as the wind when it bloweth ? 

Is love as true as the shining of the sun? 

I'll loose my locks to the free wind's blowing, 
I'll give my cheek to the sun and the rain, 

I'll give my image to the clear stream's showing, 
But I'll not give my lips to the lips of a swain. 

383 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Go hunt the bee with the sweet spoil laden ! 

Go hunt the hare, and the doe, and the dove ! 
Come not a-hunting a poor, merry maiden 

With all your mocking of love, love, love. 

Come, Wind, kiss me ! kiss and forsake not ! 

Smile to my smiling, thou constant Sun ! 
Heart in my bosom, wake not, wake not, 

Till streams in the forest forget to run ! 



384 



ELIZABETH FLINT WADE 



ELIZABETH FLINT WADE 

THE OLD STONE STEPS AT CAPRI 

Up, up the steep and rugged stairs we climb 
This rock-hewn path that has for ages been 
Worn by the ceaseless tread of many feet. 
The way is long, and wearisome, and rough, 
Yet onward, upward press we eagerly 
Toward breezy heights, toward tranquil fields and 

green. 
Above our heads, clinging to niche and cleft, 
Hang gorgeous blossoms fragrant with perfume ; 
We reach, but strive in vain e'en one to grasp, 
The wind-tossed branches just elude our touch. 
Half up the stairs nestles a little shrine 
Cut in the stone. We stay our steps and pause 
Beside this silent monitor and grave, 
And gird ourselves afresh for greater toil. 

See how yon lusty youth springs up the steps, 
His strong and sinewy frame knows no fatigue. 
Behind him toils a worn and aged man 
Bent with the burden and the weight of years. 
Matron and maid, gay youth and sober age, 
Jostle each other on these old stone steps, 
Seeking the self-same goal, — the distant peak. 

The summit gained, before the vision lies 
A glorious scene, radiant with sunset's glow. 

385 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Borneonthe evening breeze, — now near, now far, — 

The chiming of the monastery bells 

Ringing the Angelus falls on the ear. 

Far in the south lies beauteous Sicily. 

Its shining shores seen through the silvery mist 

Seem like the outlines of some fairer world. 

Beneath us ebbs and flows the restless tide, — 

A liquid turquoise barrier it lies 

'Twixt us and yonder bright Elysian fields. 

How like unto life's highway seems this steep 
And stony path with wayworn pilgrims thronged. 
The flowers that mock us just above our heads, 
Are fleeting pleasures which we idly seek. 
The shrine and resting place, some joyous day 
Marked in the mem'ry with a pure white stone. 
The height, the place we hope at last to gain, — 
The end of strife, and toil, and sorrow's stroke. 
The restless waves beneath us typify 
The eternal current of that other sea 
Whose tide, rolling still nearer and more near, 
One day shall sweep us from the shores of Time, 
And carry us to fairer, sweeter lands 
Than eye hath seen, or heart of man conceived. 



THE WILLOW 

Over the stream leans a willow old, 

Sentinel there for years untold, 

Through sultry summers and winters cold. 

386 



ELIZABETH FLINT WADE 

Moved by the winds of the autumn day, 
Its gray -green branches swing and sway, 
Backward and forth in a rhythmic way. 

The waters ripple and swirl below, 

But pause not, nor stay in their onward flow ; 

Whence have they come ? And where do they go ? 

Willow and stream ! Like mortals are they, 
One must go and the other must stay ; 
This is the riddle of life for aye. 



387 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



BLANCHE ELIZABETH WADE 

NIGHT AND PEACE 

The convent walls are dim and gray 

In the young moon's light so softly beaming ; 

The great bell's voice has ceased to pray 

For the world that lies asleep and dreaming. 

A dusky bat bends silent wing 

Through the belfry shadows darkly stealing, 
And far below the crickets sing 

In their plaintive tones of tender feeling. 

A lonely night-hawk sadly calls ; 

On the evening wind, in tree-tops sighing, 
The mournful owl's note rises, falls, 

As home to woodland nest she's flying. 

The chapel altar lights burn dim, 

And a nun asks peace upon the sleeping,— 

Nor pleads in vain that peace of Him 

Who without, within, His watch is keeping. 



A SUMMER NOON 

Hushed is the wild bird's note; he doth not sing, 
Nor floats his love call forth from flowering 

bough ; 
Too weary he for melody — see how 

388 



BLANCHE ELIZABETH WADE 

He listlessly doth droop his languid wing. 

The saucy bumble-bee forgets to sting 

A chance intruder mischief bent, and now 

In drowsy slumber dreams. Oh, bee, 'tis thou 

Art laziest of creatures ; buzzing thing, 

For once thy busy wings are silent. Yea, 
A butterfly in safety hovers nigh, 
Nor fears thy noisy hum this sunny noon. 

But pauses near to feast, — ah, well-a-day ! 

He, too, heeds naught, for fast asleep doth lie 
Another victim of thy spell, fair June! 



WHAT DO SHEPHERDS THINK f 

When shepherds, o'er their fluffy sheep 
Through long, long hours their watches keep 
And see the little lambkins leap, 

0, what do shepherds think? 

Out where the bees in blossoms hide ; 
Where soft grass grows on every side, 
And where the sky is — 0, so wide! 
0, what do shepherds think ? 

Where little birds sing all day long 
The very sweetest kind of song ; 
Where all is good, and nothing wrong, 
0, what do shepherds think? 

389 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And when the stars shine out so bright, 
With such a silvery sort of light — 
Out in the dewy fields at night, 

0, what do shepherds think? 

Do they think how, once, long ago, 
Those other shepherds saw the glow 
That led them to that Manger low — 
Of this do shepherds think ? 

And are they glad they're shepherds, too, 
Out in the fields the whole night through, 
And do they love that Baby true ? 

0, what do shepherds think ? 



390 



FRANCES HUBBARD LARKIN 



FRANCES HUBBARD LARKIN 

FOR MY FATHER'S EIGHTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY 

What need have I, his child, 

To plead in tears 
For one who has " walked softly " 

Through all these years ? 
But if to me one prayer 

Were given to-day, 
" Deal gently with my father, Lord ! " 

I'd say. 



391 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



CYPRESS SPURGE 

A "garden escape" 

Why did you run out from her garden fair, 
When the colony dame first brought you there, 
And grow by the wayside with none to care ? 
You've crept through fences, and under the wall, 
You've grown by gray bridges and headstones tall, 
You've planted your feet on the graves of all, 
The grandsires brave and loved maiden young, 
But never a song to you they have sung ! 

Oh ! dear old green moss with milk for your blood, 
Came you to earth first, soon after the flood ? 
No more in green gardens these days you grow, 
They say you've escaped — I think 'tis so. 
I'll place you here, if but for one day — 
Grandma's old-time flower — so long away. 



392 



EMILY M. HOWARD 



EMILY M. HOWARD 

THE FIRST ROBIN 

March 23, 1890 — Fifth Sunday in Lent. 

Why hast thou come to greet the spring so soon, 

My blissful one, who with stout heart and 
bold- 

Like an unlooked-for joy when life is cold — 
Choirest thy soul to this chill twilight moon ? 
Ungently on thee looked this day, whose noon 

Scattered the whirling snows on field and 
wold ; — 

While yet the crocus hides his vernal gold 
Why to these winds thy voice of May attune? 
As yet the trees their Lenten vesture wear, 

And no shy bud looks up from any bough ; 

Then why with thy rejoicings breakest thou 
The hushed earth's silent, penitential prayer? 

And with thy seraph voice why challenge now 
The pagan Winter's unabsolved despair? 



THE TRANSPLANTED TREE 

At dawn of early spring, when all hearts turn 
To greet anew — perchance with tears unseen — 
The old Love's April face— ere buds are green, 

Or hope can yet the crocus blade discern,— 

393 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Thy new leaf putting forth, still dost thou yearn 
To stand again among thy woodland peers, 
And see once more, as in thy sapling years, 

The ruddy trillium hail the folded fern? 

Still dost thou listen, through the noisy rush 
Of times and men, — the voices of the street — 

For melodies that thrilled the breathing hush 
Of far-off, long-remembered springs, — the sweet 

And shy confession of the hermit thrush, — 
The secrets of the mosses at thy feet? 



CRIMSON POPPIES 

They ask not length of days, nor deemed unkind 
The fate that cut their thread of life so soon ; 
They asked no longer than one ardent noon 

The whole of life's brief blessedness to find. 

As those that dreamed, awhile their heads they bent 
To drain the sweet of Time's too shallow cup, 
And on the edge of day they gathered up 

Their scarlet robes, and went their way content. 

They passed, — yet went rejoicing on their way 
To meet mortality, though still divine; 

For one was near more potent than decay, 

And well they knew, Love, that they were 
thine ; 

Nor hoped in vain, for all that own thy sway 
Are blest, though soon or late be life's decline. 

394 



DAVID GRAY, Jr 



DAVID GRAY, Jr. 

(Undergraduate verses, 1892 and previous.) 
EXPERIENCE 

Shadow of dead Yesterday, 

Turn thy cynic look away ; 

Chill not this young atmosphere 

Of the morning that is here 

With thy cold prophetic eyes 

Hinting at the mysteries 

Of to-morrow 7 — Let to-day 

Be itself, the first of May ! 

Nothing, either less or more, 

As there were no May before ! 

Hush thee, memory ! Tell us not 

Of the passing of the rose ; 

' Tis enough it buds and blows 

Making fair a barren spot. 

Keep thy numbing lore for hearts, 

Stranger to the dumb desires 

Born when Morning walks the peaks 

Laden with Auroral fires, 

When all cloud-land blushes rose 

And the heart in rapture glows. 

Launch the fancy free to float 

Like a gleaming bubble boat 

Bearing airily the soul 

Toward that far ecstatic pole 

Where the heart's own paradise 

Is pictured to the sleep-sealed eyes. 

395 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

GREEK CYTHERIA 

Cytheria, when May breezes play 
O'er Attic hillsides clad with vine, 
I'd toss aside the Stoic's bay 
And wear the garland which is thine ! 

The rose fades ere the laurel spray, 
But Ah ! the flower incarnadine 
With sweetness doth its death repay ! 
The rose thy symbol is and mine ! 

Let Fame point out the Hero's way 
Up Glory's height, I'll not repine, 
But when the pipes at harvest play 
Give me the paths among the vine ; 

And there, rose crowned, the livelong day, 
I'd reap the corn and tread the wine 
And weave thy choric dances gay, 
And dream at noon in groves of pine. 



ANSWER, GIRL! 

The rose that in the sun has blown 

Can it fold in the bud again 

And gather in the fragrance flown 

When June coquettes and frowns in rain ? 

Or can the heart that once was stone 
And by Love's alchemy was ta'en, 
Can it forget what it has known ? 
Can it become a stone again ? 

396 



DAVID GRAY, Je 



TROJAN HELEN 



Night wind sweep thy lyre and play, 

Play of Helen, sing her woes ; 

Make a murmured Helen sway 

The cradled slumbers of the rose ! 

Night wind from the classic sea 

Who with moon ensilvered lips 

Murmurs of the Grecian ships, 

Raise thy ancient monody; 

Bear Her name upon thy wings 

Through the cloisters of the wood, 

Past the spirit-haunted springs 

Where the moon-made shadows brood. 

Breathe it o'er the moss-wrapped shrines 

In the porches of the pines, 

And the long-stilled harmonies 

Of Homeric days will stir, 

Stir again and seem to rise 

New and wonderful and wise 

In the loveliness of Her, 

Helen, in whose sybil eyes 

Sleep the world-old mysteries. 



ON LEAVING COLLEGE 

days without a shadow that was stern ! 
O pleasant vale of Time, this side the sea 
That spreads before its pathless mystery ; 
In how fair regions have I made sojourn ! 

397 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And from what gentle company I turn — 
Ye old-time dreams, what pleasant folk ye be ! — 
To Emmaus, Youth, I've walked with thee 
The while my heart did all unwitting burn ! 
Now has the morning sun this realm passed o'er ; 
To lands beyond the sea the westing light 
Moves on — my little boat waits on the shore 
To follow till the shore sinks from tile sight. 
Shapes of To-day, so soon To-day no more! 
The hour is come — Good-night, sweet friends, 
Good-night ! 



398 



IRVING S. UNDERHILL 



IRVING S. UNDERHILL 

THE BEAUTIFUL TIUO 

Dorothea, Dorothy, 
Sweet, my darling Dora, 
She's a veritable rose, 
The fairest of the flora. 

When she's haughty, when provoked, 
When inclined to be a 
Trifle of the flirt with me, 
Then she's Dorothea. 

Maiden in her tennis gown 
Radiant as Aurora, 
Laughing with all keen delight 
In the sport, that's Dora. 

But when tete-a-tete we're seated, 
Whispering commonplaces, 
Filling in with dearer thoughts 
Conversation's spaces, 

When I'm sure, of women all, 

One is all to me, 

Would you know that wondrous one? 

She is Dorothy. 



399 



POETS AND POETEY OF BUFFALO 

dora's eyes 

Two images those lights once caught 

Of stars which, though for ages taught 

To sport in rivulet or lake 

Or sea or ocean, by mistake 

Dived down into the dewy deeps 

Of Dora's Eyes. And still she keeps 

Them prisoners, caught fast I think 

A-napping by a sudden wink 

That snapped the cords, the mystic tie 

That bound the vagrants to the sky. 



TO HIM, TO HER 

They sit in hammock swinging, 
The birds their notes are singing ; 
A rustling in the leaves o'erhead 
Is Cupid's tread 
To him ; 
To her 
A rustling in the leaves o'erhead. 

They watch the heaving ocean, 
He swears a life's devotion. 
A murmuring as the winds pass by 
Is Cupid's sigh 

To him ; 

To her 
A murmuring as the winds pass by. 

400 



IRVING S. UNDERHILL 

His vow to live in hermit's den, 
(That same old fiction told again) 
A broken heart and all the rest 
Is Cupid's jest 
To her ; 
To him 
A broken heart and all the rest. 



A LONG-DEAWN SIGH 

In all those gentle ways some trick 

Of Nature did confide to her ; 
In true nobility of heart 

Which may not be denied to her, 
And in the play of coquetry 

That now and then conceals it ; 
In half unspoken sympathy 

So subtle yet one feels it, 

In all her merry flights of gladness, 

In all that rippling laughter, 
The pleased glance, the touch of sadness 

In the look that lingers after ; 
In all that honest dignity 

That wreathes a crown above her 
There is such sweet congruity 

That how could I but love her ! 



401 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



HANNAH G. FERNALD 

ON ARBOR DAY 

" I wonder," said the little nut, 

" What I am going to be ! " 
The sunshine whispered overhead, 

"You'd better grow and see ! " 
He sent two tender leaflets up 

Amidst the crowding grass. 
"It's stuffy underground ! " he cried, 

"Please won't you let me pass?" 
Then Robbie saw him standing there 

And carried him away. 
"I've found the dearest thing," said he ; 

" My tree for Arbor day ! 
He'll need a long, long time to grow, 

He's very small, you see ; 
But by the time that I'm a man 

He'll make a splendid tree ! 
Perhaps then I'll be President — 

I wonder what I'll be ! " 
The sunshine whispered low to both, 

"You'd better grow and see! " 

By permission of The Youth's Companion, April 28, 1904. 



402 



JESSIE STORES FERRIS 



JESSIE STORRS FERRIS 



THE DEAF BEETHOVEN 

A spiritual giant ! though the cells 

Where beat the surging sound-waves silent grew 
Ere yet his passionate youth had lost the dew 
And song of morning, and the unplumbed wells 
Of secret bitterness uprose. A thousand hells 
Of thwarted purpose burst upon him. You 
Whose sentient ear is pierced through and 
through 
Each day with music, can you think what bells 
Broke the vast, piteous silence of that brain, 
Magnificent in failure, yet whose pain 
Bore children of a kinglier growth than sound 
Had yet conceived ? His chord an echo found 
That soothed the world's eternal, troubled 

breath, 
Then rose and shook the very doors of death. 



THE FIREFLY 

He glows within the braided net 
That Twilight wove of heat and dark, 
And o'er the meadows, dewy-wet, 
And through the grasses of the park 

403 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

He leads the dance with taper-spark ; 
Then suddenly he fades from sight, 
As upward floats the Moon's bright barque,— 
A vanished jewel of the Night. 



THE LIFE NATURAL 

The gods are not all dead : here 'mong the hills 

Is air ambrosial, and the tangv sweet 

Of strawberries is nectar all enough. 

We hunt the furtive game, and on the banks 

Of mountain torrents cast our baited line, 

Then lay us down beneath the quiet stars 

To sleep unbroken and to innocent dreams. 

The keen, bright air and utter stillness bind 

Undreamed-of peace about our tired brows ; 

And that fierce life that dwells in all of us 

Springs up at last — a ringing sword, unsheathed 

From the strait scabbard of our fevered life. 

The Youth we thought had withered, scorched 

Faith, 
Too delicate for the hot breath of the world, 
And prismic Hope, that lodgment never finds 
But in pure hearts of simple trustfulness, 
And Reverence, that long had buried been, 
And Love we thought had taken winged flight, 
Leaving a train of evil birds behind, — 
All, all came back, here in the changeless hills. 

404 



JESSIE STORKS FERRIS 

We breathe, we move as beings born again, 
And that elusive thing named Happiness 
That we had hunted up and down the world. 
Flees from us not again, but sweetly stays 
And makes our lives a poem of Rest and Use. 



MY BOAT AND I 

My boat and I are comrades true and tried, 

Beneath the zenith sun or cooling moon, 

O'er glancing streams and splendid seas we ride. 

Through water-gates all lily-choked we glide, 
Past secret fens, where laughs the maniac loon — 
My boat and I are comrades true and tried. 

Our oar knows well where the kingfishers hide, 
And well it loves the longshore'* slumberous croon ; 
O'er glancing streams and splendid seas we ride. 

When we are weary, then we fain would slide 
Within the bars of some sand-locked lagoon,— 
My boat and I are comrades true and tried. 

But when the day is young, our course is wide 
O'er salt-lipped waves that roar a hungry tune,— 
O'er glancing streams and splendid seas we ride. 

Would we could float forever on this tide 
Of care-free days that vanish all too soon ! 
My boat and I are comrades true and tried, 
O'er glancing streams and splendid seas we ride. 

405 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



EDITH EATON CUTTER 

A FACE 

The face of one who asked for bread, 

And asking so received a stone ; 
Of one, to Faith and Hope, who fled 

Till Faith and Hope were dead and gone. 

Of one who stretched confiding hands 

Toward all the joys that life should give; 

Of one who found in weary lands 
How little comes to all who live. 

The face of one, when all else failed, 
Who turned to Love and felt secure, 

Though Faith, and Hope, and Joy had paled, 
That Love, great Love, would still endure. 

The face of one, when all was said, 

Who turned with blank ness in her eyes ; 

The face of one, when Love was dead, 
Who felt that he might never rise. 

And yet a face whose grand unrest 

Ennobled those by whom 'tis known, 

And casts a spell of Peace confessed 
Which Life shall never make its own. 



406 



EDITH EATON CUTTER 

MILK-WEED 

A stretch of dusty country road 
With harvest sunshine over all, 
A vine-grown bit of crumbling wall 

By seas of goldenrod o'erflowed, 
And milk- weed tall. 

The wiry stems bear high their prize 
Of yellowing pods, that break almost 
With swelling hearts, and yield their ghost 

When the last daisy droops and dies 
At touch of frost. 

A branch of milk-weed tall and straight, 
In classic vase of clouded white 
Stands glinting in the firelight, 

With shifting shadows alternate, 
This winter's night. 

Now pent within the curtained gloom, 
Impatient in their white despair, 
These little captive spirits dare 

To flutter wild across the room 
At breath of air. 

They, restless, long, through wintry cold 
To seek that strip of wind-swept close, 
To rest where fell the bramble rose, 

Beside the daisy's heart of gold 
Beneath the snows. 



407 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

A PICTURE OF MILLAIS' 

Quaint little maid in the carven frame, 
Looking out from the pictured gloom 
Into the silent shadowed room, 

With eyes whose question is still the same— 

An artist's brush, with bold caprice, 

Has caught you out from a century past, 
And on the canvas pinioned fast, 

You are captive held in an endless peace. 

The misty lights of those far-off days 
Still linger round you, it would seem, 
And like the shadows of a dream 

They struggle out from unknown space. 

The surging tides of this mortal life 
That perfect calm can never mar ; 
But faintly echoed from afar, 

You catch the sound of the distant strife. 

The flight of years, with careless ruth 
Can never brush you with their wings — 
In Art, and Art alone, there springs 

The fountain of eternal youth. 



408 



ARTHUR DETMERS 



ARTHUR DETMERS 

A DAILY PRAYER 

To grow a little wiser day by day, 

To school my mind and body to obey, 

To keep my inner life both clean and strong, 

To free my lips from guile, my hands from wrong, 

To shut the door on hate and scorn and pride, 

To open, then, to love the windows wide, 

To meet with cheerful heart what comes to me, 

To turn life's discords into harmony, 

To share some weary worker's heavy load, 

To point some straying comrade to the road, 

To know that what I have is not my own, 

To feel that I am never quite alone — 

This would I pray 

From day to day, 

For then I know 

My life will flow 

In peace until 

It be God's will 
I go. 

1901. 



409 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



ANNE MURRAY LARNED 

SUNBEAMS 

The sunbeams get up early, 
While we are still in bed, 

And dance upon the meadow, 
Where dewy webs are spread. 

They flit among the tree-tops, 
And wake each drowsy bird, 

Then slip into the woods below 
Before a flower has stirred. 

And long before we waken 
Their early work is through; 

They breakfast in the -meadow 
Off brimming cups of dew. 



RAINDROPS 

You may hear us on your window when you go to 

bed at night, 
And dancing on the housetops when you waken 

with the light. 

And when you skip away to school we pelt you as 

you run, — 
If we should chance to wet you, you know it's 

only fun. 

410 



ANNE MURRAY LARNED 

It's such a happy life we live, with naught to make 

us fret ; 
We never have to stuy indoors because it is so 

wet ! 

And yet life isn't always play ; there's work to do, 

you know, — 
We have to wash the whole world clean, and make 

the sweet flowers grow. 

But when our work is over comes the time we like 

the best, 
W 7 hen we're lifted up and put away in a great soft 

cloud to rest. 



SCANDAL 

" Eadetn nocte accidit, ut Luna plena esset."— Caesar. 

The wind just breathed it to the pine, 
Who shook her head and sighed ; 

And then she told it to the oak, 
Who said the wind had lied. 

But, all the same, he told the ash, 
Who told the willow tree; 

And so it passed along the line 
Until it came to me. 

I heard it from the speckled trout, 
Who had it from the pool ; 

And this is how the story ran : 
Last night the moon was fall ! 

411 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



ROSE MILLS POWERS 

SONG 

Oh, Love in youth is brave as Mars — 

Sing, sweetheart, sing with me ! 
He walks with head amid the stars 

And feet upon the sea, 
And thinketh thoughts as deep, 
As deep — 

As all eternity ! 
But Love, grown old, spurs not apace, 

But homeward wends his way ; 
The world has grown a weary place 

And Love is spent and gray ; 
God grant him there one fond sweet face 

To cheer the end of day ! 
One fond and faithful face, 
Sweetheart — 

To cheer the end of day ! 



PRESCIENCE 

Love, hear the burden of my prayer : 
'Twill not be always thine to woo, 

And lifeless fingers have no care 
If laid therein be rose or rue. 

412 



ROSE MILLS POWERS 

Love, hear the burden of my prayer : 
Give me to-day to hear thee vow 

How dear my eyes, my lips, my hair, 
Nor wait for Death to teach thee how 

Love, hear the burden of my prayer : 
Lock me to-day in thy embrace ! 

Too late when shining candles flare 
To rain thy kisses on my face ! 

Love, hear the burden of my prayer : 
Walk with me gently down the days, 

Lest Death come on us, unaware, 
And point the parting of the ways. 



413 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



SARAH EVANS LETCHWORTH 

MY MADONNA 

The radiance of the sunset wings the sky, 

Its glories linger loath to leave her hair ; 

The gift of motherhood has made so fair 

The girlish features of my wife, that I 

Half think some angel touched her, passing by. 

Her eyes are bent upon the child in prayer ; 

Her arms enfold him close, as though she dare 

Not have him distant from her bosom lie. 

Dark lashes rest above the cheeks yet pale 

From danger and the weariness of pain, 

But joy will charm the roses back again, 

And through bemisted vision, here I see 

A miracle of love that can not fail. 

I bend my head and worship silently. 



414 



EMILY HOWLAND LEEMING 



EMILY HOWLAND LEEMING 

LOVE STANDS AND WAITS 

Love stands and waits by night and day, 
With pleading eyes and lips that say, 
" Hard-hearted ones, pass me not by, 
I starve, ah, feed me or I die ! — 
Will all these turn and say me nay ? " 

Some smile among the idlers gay, 
A few give all, most turn away, 
But still, with sorrow-burdened cry 
Love stands and waits. 

Unfeeling hearts, your hardened clay 
Would crush poor Love until she lay 
Dead, but her seat is far too high 
For touch profane ; Love cannot die, 
Her own are glad. But night and day 
Love stands and waits. 



THE AWAKENING 

Was it the blue-bird's magic note 
That broke the dim enchanted spell ? 
Or was it song from robin's throat 
That clearly on the woodland fell? 

415 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

None is can say when Winter stood 
And bade "Retreat" to legions drear; 
Hearts only know that in the wood 
Arbutus wakes and Spring is here. 

What voice of wailing Autumn wind 
Hushed every bud to deeper rest, 
Till Spring should come, and smile to find 
Them sleeping still on April's breast? 

What dreams of sunshine warm and sweet 
Do fleeting, drifting snow-flakes hold ? 
What thoughts of resurrection beat 
Thro 1 the deep heart of Winter's cold? 

No eye has seen, no lip can tell 

What sign first told of Spring's advance, 

When pussy-willow 'gan to swell, 

Or bud awoke from dreamy trance. 

But break from Winter's heart and sing, 
For now in forests far and near, 
Beneath the dead year's covering 
Arbutus wakes and Spring is here. 



VIOLETS 

What angel eyes grown deep because their gaze 
Had passed the place where thought grows still 

and dies, 
Bade in your heart a purple fount to rise 
In answer to their look, that in all days 
Your robe of kingly color men should prize? 

416 



EMILY HOWLAND LEEMING 

What vial did he bring from Paradise 

Of odors rare, to make thought cleave the skies 

And dream of heav'n's breath shed o'er earthly 

ways? 
I cannot tell ; —when that soft fragrance flings 
Its spell around my soul, what charm'd thought 

springs 
Within my mind ; but once I dreamed 
I stood in coming heaven, and I seemed 
In dewless fields, while quickened pulses beat 
To see the violets nodding at my feet. 



417 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



MARRION WILCOX 

ABOVE ALL HEIGHTS 

Ueber alien Gipfeln ist Rub..— Goethe. 

From Harpers Magazine, copyright, 1901, by Harper & Brothers. 

Work for work's sake, and for our art, I say ; 
Not for ourselves — no, not for our best friends, 
Nor heart's content when our brief day's work 
ends; 

A thousand times less for men's praise or pay. 

To crown the finished task, rest comes unsought ; 
But seems it finished, to the Power above 
And Master even of rest, until with love — 

For no reward, but as God made — we've wrought? 

" Above all heights is rest." At set of sun 

Spirits perturbed in darkening valleys moan: 
"Because we strove for wealth and fame alone, 

Our work unfinished and ourselves undone! " 



LIKE THE GOOD GOD 

From Harper" 1 * Magazine, copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. 

His own face he had never seen before 
In all his recluse life, and he had grown 
Almost to manhood knowing nothing more 
Than the poor cell in which they two alone, 
He and his father, dwelt. 

418 



MARRION WILCOX 

I can't tell why 
His father fled into the wilderness, 
But for some wrong he loathed society. 
Taking his infant son from such distress 
As he himself had felt, he fed his mind 
With all experience taught of good and bad ; 
So the boy knew by name each horrid kind 
Of crime, each lovely virtue ; and he had 
Such images to frighten or delight 
As his thoughts made by day, his dreams by night. 
With form and feature fancy did deck out 
A sweet angelic choir, a devil's rout. 
But One, of whom his father oftenest spoke, 
Remained only a name : no image woke 
Into his fancy when he heard that all 
Came from that One — from that One's simple word : 
The sun's uprising and the sparrow's fall : 
For, while he heard such things, he thought he 

heard 
That this Source of all life suffered death's reign ; 
Himself secure, permitted mortal pain. 
So the boy tried to imagine good and evil 
Expressed in one face — Gabriel and the devil — 
But could not do it. 

Now, the loveliest thing 
That boy was ! — Manly past imagining, 
Hardy with abstinence, with high thoughts fine. 
Nature in him had made her work divine. 
But what he was he knew not till one day 
When rain had fallen in that desert place : 

419 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

A pool of water mirrored his own face, 
And, seeing it, he humbly knelt to pray. 



NORTH AND SOUTH FROM THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE 

From Harper's Magazine, copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. 

A poisonous forest of houses far as the eye can see, 
And in their shade 
All crime is made. 
Now God love you and me ! 
I think He made even that shade in the cities by 

the sea — 
In the poisonous forest of houses like a forest of 
upas-trees. 

Look ! from the south — 
From the harbor's mouth — 
Crisp curling comes the breeze ! 
From the freed stream's mouth, from theglad, glad 
south, from the cool breast of God's seas. 



IN THE CITY AFTER LEAVING THE MOUNTAINS 

From Harper's Weekly, copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. 

Dull senses, stirred 
By the great city's sounds, so long unheard ; 
Toil-swollen hands and sluggish, sun-baked brain. 
To feel this civic pulse — to think again — 
I strive in vain : 

420 



MARRION WILCOX 

For old, old mountains rise 
Behind these crowds of people of to-day. 
Gray rock, green forest, and their darling stream 
Are in my eyes still, since my lingering gaze 
Held them, them only, through long, lonely days. 
So, to my eyes, 

Our toiling human thousands do but play 
With phantom needs, with woes born of a dream : 
Chasing desires that flit, with mocking cries, 
Athwart the mountainous old verities. 



GOOD NIGHT 

Good Night hath filled her cup with white 

Star-sparkling wine — 
O'erbrimmed our valley with moonlight — 

Your cup and mine. 
It is the dreamful wine of sleep : 
Drink of it, my Delight, drink deep. 
Good-night! 



421 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 
CHARLOTTE BECKER 

A CHILD OF THE WOODS 

He knew the first sweet wood-note of the thrush, 
The first pale wind-flower hidden in the grass ; 
The little shrines where fire-flies saying mass 
Swing low their censers through the marsh-land's 

bush; 
The quickened sound before the poignant hush 
Which preludes charges at old earth's cuirass — 
That magic moment when the seasons pass 
And all live things to newer promise rush. 
He loved the bob-o-link's familiar call, 
The friendly clover nodding to the bees ; 
The tiger-lilies flaunting, gay and tall, 
Their motley coats of spotted harmonies ; 
And when the night lay on the forests grim, 
He heard the tree-tops croon a song for him. 



SYMPATHY 

We laughed together, love and I, 
When all the world was bright ; 

We mocked at pain, and thought we spanned 
The measure of delight. 

We wept together, love and I, 

When all the world was gray; 
And yet, we had not known how fair 

The w r orld was — till that day ! 

422 



CHARLOTTE BECKER 

A STKEET SONG 

He knew no call of hearth or home — 

A strolling piper, old and gray, 
Who cheered his fellow mountebanks 

With tune and jest the livelong day; 
And often one sad little song 

With this refrain they heard him play — 
" Ah Colinette, 
Do not forget! " 

One noon, within a dusty street, 

They spread their cloth of scarlet down, 
Where harlequins should leap and dance 

Betwixt the antics of the clown ; 
And all the while the piper played 
As if a spell rose from the town — 
"Ah Colinette, 
Do not forget! " 

The village folk drew close about, 

And on the outskirt of the throng 
A worn old woman bent her head 

And dreamt of words unuttered long ; 
Then, scarce more loud than passing wind, 
She breathed an answer to the song — 
"Ah Colinette 
Could not forget!" 



423 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

A GARDEN IN GREECE 

Beneath these ilex boughs the air is still 

As some deserted shrine whence life has fled, 
Some tomb that holds the ashes of the dead 
Deep hid from living eyes ; dank grasses fill 
The silenced fountain's bowl, where once at will 
The water sprites held sway — now in their 

stead, 
An ancient satyr nods his drowsy head. 
Unhindered, Spring by Spring, prim daffodil 
And pale narcissus people as their own 
The dusky paths, which echo nevermore 
To pipes of Pan, nor strains of Phoebus' lore, 
Nor naiad's laugh ; for years have turned to stone 
The gods of eld — and solitude shall keep 
A world-long vigil o'er their place of sleep. 



IMAGINATION 

I am the flame that springs from ev'ry fire 
Of youth, or skill, or genius, or of strength ; 

I am the wind that smote Apollo's lyre, 

And made sweet music through Eola's length. 

I am the sands of ancient Egypt, where 

Strange caravans pass through the warm, still 
gloom ; 

I am the phantom isles, the mirage fair 
That lured forgotten races to their doom. 

424 



CHARLOTTE BECKER 

I am the waves that beat upon the shore 
Of Camelot and harked to Merlin's call. 

1 am the cloak of darkness Siegfried bore ; 
The talisman that loosed Brunhilde's thrall. 

I am the fragrance of the forest trail, 

The whispered voices of the trees above. 

I am the heart of romance ; and the veil 

That hides with tender touch the faults of love. 

I steal through cities and I haunt the moor, 

I draw my scarlet thread through time, unfurled ; 

Though rich in gold, who knows me not is poor — 
Who knows me holds in fief the whole wide world ! 

By permission of The New England Magazine. 



THE RECK ONI NG 

Love taught me all I knew of bliss, 
Love taught me all I knew of pain — 
Lured me with laughter and disdain, 

Then made me captive with his kiss. 

He vowed no pleasure I should miss, 

Then swift he wounded me again — 
Love taught me all I knew of bliss ; 
Love taught me all I knew of pain. 

So deep we sounded grief's abyss, 
My heart to beg release was fain ; 
Ah, would my pleading had been vain, 
For now I but remember this : 
Love taught me all I know of bliss ! 

425 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

ARDEN 

There is a wood wherein the thrushes fling 

Their very hearts away in melody ; 

Where dryads have a home in every tree, 

And wood-gods haunt the shadow, murmuring 

Fantastic lures ; where tawny lilies swing 

Their fragrant bells, and bees hum drowsily ; 

And breezes woo the pale anemone 

With tenderness that breathes the soul of Spring. 

Here Summer may not pass, nor Autumn rest 
His blighting hand, nor harsh winds wend their 

way ; 
Beneath these boughs the wonder of the May 
Shall never fade, nor Love deny his quest 
Of happiness, nor beauty lose its truth ; 
For Arden's forest is immortal vouth ! 



THE COST 

From Harper's Magazine, copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers. 

To-day is only won from yesterday ; 

The flower must lose its sweet to dower the bee; 
The breeze is gathered in the great wind's way ; 

The river bears its largess to the sea. 

And we must pay for laughter with our tears ; 

Mint coin of sorrow for each cherished breath 
Of happiness ; buy knowledge with the years ; 

And give our lives to know the peace of death! 

426 



CHARLOTTE BECKER 

CAMARADERIE 

To share what eyes have seen and ears have heard, 
To know each other's language; and to feel 

The larger meaning of the spoken word, 
The subtler nearness silences reveal. 



PIERROT 

The Muse, his foster-mother, bids him wear 
A merry face — although the skies are gray, 
And night should bring him but a nest of hay 
Within the new-mown fields. " For earth is fair," 
Laughs she, "and hearts lie open wide as air 
To him who cheers them." So, from day to day, 
In gay grotesques he sings upon his way ! 
Alike at peasant hearth or palace stair. 
All through the sun-stained countries of the South 
The people know and love this white-frocked mime 
Whose eyes speak sadness, but whose laughing 

mouth 
Brings only maddest whimsy or glad rhyme 
As plea for shelter — yet, from high or low, 
None meets a dearer welcome than Pierrot ! 



ENVOY 

Say not, because he did no wondrous deed, 

Amassed no worldly gain, 
Wrote no great book, revealed no hidden truth — 

Perchance he lived in vain. 

427 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

For there was grief within a thousand hearts 

The hour he ceased to live ; 
He held the love of women, and of men — 

Life has no more to give ! 



428 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER 

THE CITY OF LIGHT 
The Pan-American Exposition. 

What shall we name it 

As is our bounden duty, — 

This new, swift-builded faiiy city of Beauty,— 

What name that shall not shame it, 

Shall make it live beyond its too short living 

With praises and thanksgiving. 

Its name — how shall we doubt it, — 

We who have seen, when the blue darkness falls, 

Leap into lines of light its domes, and spires, and 

walls, 
Pylons, and colonnades, and towers, 
All garlanded with starry flowers ! 
Its name— what heart that did not shout it 
When, from afar, flamed sudden against the night 
The City of Light! 

Amherst House, Buffalo, May, 1901. 



429 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

THE COMFORT OF THE TREES 

McKinley, September, 1901 . 

Gentle and generous, brave-hearted, kind, 
And full of love and trust was he, our chief; 
He never harmed a soul ! Oh, dull and blind 
And cruel, the hand that smote, beyond belief ! 

Strike him ? It could not be ! soon should we find 
'T was but a torturing dream — our sudden grief ! 
Then sobs and wailingsdown the northern wind 
Like the wild voice of shipwreck from a reef ! 

By false hope lulled (his courage gave us hope !) 
By day, by night we watched,— until unfurled 
At last the word of fate ! — Our memories 

Cherish one tender thought in their sad scope : 
He, looking from the window on this world, 
Found comfort in the moving green of trees. 



430 



ALINE GLENNY 



ALINE GLENNY 



A SONG 



Come to us, Joan, the wild woods cry, 
I long for you, sigh the murmuring seas ; 

The sweet summer days like birds fly by, 
The wind moans softly among the trees : 

Come to us, Joan, we yearn for you ; 

Our love is tender, trusting and true. 

The fountain murmurs with tear-drops clear, 
For you the heart of the red rose bleeds — 

Come to us soon for we want you near, 

Dearest, we need you, the white dove pleads 

Come to us, Joan, we yearn for you, 

Our love is tender, trusting and true. 



431 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



CAROLINE MISCHKA ROBERTS 

THE ROSE OF AYONTOWN 

Once bloomed a rose in Avontown 
A rose as red as the morning ; 

Its thorns were sharp but its heart was gold 
And diamond dew-drops its cup did hold, 
A rose for a bride's adorning. 

A bride there was in Avontown, 

The bride of a bright June morning, 
The lovely rose she chanced to see, 
And said : "' Tis what my life will be, 
I'll pluck it for my adorning." 

"For," spake the bride of Avontown, 

"The thorns are for grief and mourning, 
With a petal for youth and one for health, 
With another for fame and two for wealth, 
And the heart for love, life's adorning." 

Now as she was wed in Avontown, 

In the blush of the bright June morning, 
The rose's red petals all fell away 
And nought but the thorny stem did stay 
With the heart of gold adorning. 

The bride waxed old in Avontown, 

The bride of the bright June morning, 

432 



CAROLINE MISCHKA ROBERTS 

Her rosy dreams long flown away, 
But happy was she, though bent and gray, 
For love stayed, her life adorning. 

By permission of Arthur P. Schmidt. Copyright, 1894. 



LULLABY 

The Moon hangs low in the eastern sky, 

The Sun hangs low in the west, 
The Evening Star in the heavens is high, 

A gem on the Twilight's breast; 
And each one says that the time is nigh 

For tired wee folk to rest, 
So cuddle ye close and cosily lie 

Tucked in your warm white nest. 



433 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



THEKLA ADAM 

MARCH 

This is the month when wild-flowers dream. 

All winter they have slept, 
Still as the dead, in frozen ground. 

No lightest dream has crept 
Through any drowsy flower-heart. 

Now March has come, 
Faint visions warm the chilly earth — 

A sleep less numb 
Is theirs. What do they dream of there? 

Of slopes that sun 
Themselves in April light ? Of streams 

That gurgling run 
Half-mad with joy? Of the sweet breath 

Of ev'ry lovely thing 
That breaks the mold ? Of these, and all 

The sweet, sweet joys of Spring. 



434 



JANE F. DOWLING 



JANE F. DOWLING 

(MRS. ROBERT B. FOOTE.) 

ROSEMARY 

If for each tear I've shed, a joy might spring 

Into thy life, dear heart ! 
How gladly would I shed them all again 

And so depart 
Upon my way, glad that my life a price 
Could be 
For thy tranquility. 

If for each hour of joy I've spent with thee 

In days gone by, 
Thou wilt retain a tender memory, 

Mayhap a sigh, 
'Twill help me face the future steadfastly, 

Though life will be 
A path long, dark and shadowy ; 

A saltless sea, 
With thee alive, though dead to me. 



435 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



S. CECILIA COTTER KING 

(Mrs. William A. King.) 
FEAST OF SAINT CECILIA 

What thrilling- vibrations, 

What soulful cantations, 

Enrapture the heart on this drear autumn day ! 

Making God's sunshine rush back to the meadows, 

Making the songsters recall their sweet lay. 

Seraphic voices sing, glorious their Antiphon ! 

Bright ranks of choristers swell the grand tone, 

Cherubs pronounce the song, — 

Fling it the strings along 

Of harpsichords glad. 

God touched the love note; 

All nature responded, 

Cecilia's soul echoed the joyful refrain, 

And harmonies captive impetuous break forth, 

When trumpeting angels her festal proclaim. 

Then wondrous the power is, 

And magic the spell 'tis 

A creature creates. 

soul, in which hides 

And trembles and bides 

The thoughts of our God, set to music sublime! 

Touch softly our heartstrings. In tune and in time 

436 



S. CECILIA COTTER KING 

Our years be as hymnals, our days their sweet 

stanzas, 
Until, Saint Cecilia , 
Our lives blend with thine 
In diapason divine. 



437 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



PHILIP BECKER GOETZ 

KEATS 

A Fragment. 

poet whom Apollo taught to sing 

And gave the lyre antique whose muted string 

Sang never clearlier than at thy sweep 

Of hand the bright, deep, mighty themes asleep 

In memory and long forgot, arise 

And visit with thy rare, immediate eyes, 

Thy diadem of sky, thy robing air, 

Thy throne of earth, and hear thy granted prayer, 

The sea, awaited minstrel of thy court, 

Before thee eloquently echoing 

Thy long desire ! 

Despite thy mortal spring 
Thy promised gifts to ripeness learned to grow 
Till now hope's autumn rounds th' empurpled 

glow 
Of all thy wanton-clustered fancies fair. 
Chill reason's frugal fingers, guessing where 
Most luscious hung these arbiters of cheer, 
Plucked prudently thy store and, marking year, 
Finds richer to the taste of practised lip 
Thy joy and tragedy. 

Then hither trip, 
Ye lissom Mainads of the secret dell, 
Boon Bakchanals, and ye of steep and fell, 

438 



PHILIP BECKER GOETZ 

pious guardians, the sequent host 

Of piping Pan, and ye who bleach the coast 

Where dulcet strains of music amorous 

Met your forever-listening ears till thus 

In wreck of fallen flesh, quite dissolute, 

Yet listening still, ye dropped a prey to brute ! 

And thou, queen vigilant, drawn from the height 

Of heaven, snowy with erected light 

Of contemplation, Dian, most romantic 

Become above thy Latmian whom frantic 

Thy virgin arms and eyes and kisses drave ; 

And ye, once more devising how to save 

Olympos, Titans bent beneath the hoary 

And rock-ribbed mountains, hear rehearsed your 

glory, 
Strife and damnation, and declare if e'er 
Your protest toned profounder voice than there 
In his recorded guess deemed worthless care ! 



OBSCURITIES 

To-day you see a rose 
And only color glows 

And speaks; 
To-morrow still it reigns 
But other gifts contains 

And seeks. 

As for the rose your eye, 
So for the poem try 
All ways ; 

439 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

If never twice the same, 
To rose or eye no blame 
But praise. 



PHILLIPS BROOKS 

Not like a star he dwelt apart austere, 

Shining diminished through the airy deep 

In midmost of the line his helm and spear 
Made warriors of all and banished fear. 



440 



JAMES S. METCALFE 



JAMES S. METCALFE 

THE LAST LOVER 

Tired of earthly loving, 

Weary of earthly sin, 
Weighed down with earthly sorrow, 

Thy peace I fain would win, 
Dear Death ! 

In thy pale arms enfold me ! 

Thy damp kiss on my brow 
Shall bring me peace at last, love ; 

I fain would have it now, 
Sweet Death ! 

And thy love shall last forever, 
And thy constancy alway, 

So tarry not, my lover, 

But come, yes, come to-day, 
My Death ! 



441 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



CARLETON SPRAGUE 

J. G. M. 

A score of years and ten have past, — 
How stealthily they steal away our days, 
These silent robbers of our opportunities, — 

Since first this friend 

Came to our City's gates ; 
Came all unheralded ; and unequipped was he 

With that on which 

The world sets greatest store, — 
Wealth, friends powerful, position ready-made, — 

These and their like he lacked, 

But in their stead 
Some precious gifts were his, gifts not the rarest 

each, 
But in the happy combination found in him 

How rare ! 
And first, a mind well trained, 
Stored through long, studious hours 
With wealth of knowledge gained 
In journeys wide through book-strewn paths, 

which, 
Tracing out an hundred devious ways, 

Converge at last 
Before that lofty temple, whose white portal 

Bears the inscription "Culture," 

442 



CARLETON SPRAGUE 

But a single word, than which 

Few higher titles name 

The best of any age 
Since man began to find his best expression. 
And his the sweetness of the gentle great, — 

Best gift of God — 
And his wide tolerance, broad sympathies 

And love of fellow men. 
They, feeling this, and taking his warm hand, 

The kindliness flowed into them 

And all were better men 
Because he came and lived within their midst. 

This human influence 

Toward what is good in us, 
This quickened flow of finer impulses 

Which dormant lie 
Beneath the weight of every day, — 
To stir these by mere presence, 
By character's involuntary worth, 
Is to attain to heights few mount, 

Is to behold the Promised Land. 

January, 1904 



413 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



BY AN UNNAMED WRITER 

THOUGHTS ON A LONE OAK 

Great, grand and gnarled Oak, continually 

Thy weary arms seem reaching into space ; 

Of time and tempest still thou bearest trace ; 
Beside thee stands no sympathizing tree 

To whisper comfort in thy lonely place : 
The parting sun sinks silent o'er the sea, 
His light a passing glory rests on thee ; 

I see Endurance crowned and hide my face! 

Like thee, old Oak, I, too, have stood apart, 
Beaten by winds, forsaken and forlorn, 

I stretched my arms to unresponsive air ; 
I said in bitterness be strong my heart ! 

Now, life's delusions from my soul are torn ; 
I, too, can storm and isolation bear. 

1893. 



444 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

BLIND POLYPHEMUS 

All day upon a grassy slope I stretch 

My vast uncertain limbs. About me stray 

The sheep I used to watch, whom still I turn 

My darkened eye upon, and I can hear 

The patter of their feet, stray near, stray far. 

I hear as others see, and still my voice 

Has worship with the sheep, they come at call. 

Sometimes I lie so still the new-weaned lambs 

Huddle against me when the wind blows cold, 

Sometimes they leap upon me in their play. 

They fear me not, my sheep have never feared. 

My hand was only harsh against my kind, 

And those fell creatures whom the gods gave souls 

To vex the Mother with their restless lives. 

Aye, such as he, the wily Ithacan. 

For one long year I saw him, day by day, 

Against the scar-seamed curtain of mine eye, — 

His quick frank smile, his eyes that read one's mind 

Yet never gave me glimmer of his own, — 

His lean strong arms and broad, brown, knotted 

back, 
And his gaunt followers all like to him 
As little foxes to their keen-eyed sire. 
And each day, for a year, I felt my way, 
Down to the beach, and washed the healing wound, 

445 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

And laid my head upon the cool wet sand, 
And cried to Father Sea to pay my score, 
Tenfold redoubled, on the crafty one ; 
To drive him rudderless on outer seas , 
To drift him wide of port, to suck his men 
Deep into eddying water-pits — to death; 
And then when, day by day, his blurring eyes 
Had strained, to heart-break, for a sight of port, 
To show him land, and then— to strike him blind. 

But peace has come at last. My brothers deem 
Because I rage no more, that I am mad ; 
Because my sight is turned upon myself 
And I see dimly where the brute has lain 
That made my heart his lair, and find it foul. 
I cannot drive my past into the past, 
My memory holds, but I shall curse no more. 

And often I forget,— when at my side 

The old ram crouches, legs beneath him bent, 

And round his wrinkled horns I grip my hands 

And pillow soft my face upon his flank. 

Sleep comes — the blind may sleep as sweet and deep 

As those whose eyes are weary of the day, — 

And at my side the ram lies quietly — 

He guards me now, for once I guarded him. 

And Zeus grants one delight ; — when day is gone, 
When night blinds all, my sight comes back to me ; 
And I can see, as last I saw, the day — 
The great blue breathing deep— the black ribbed slag 
That Titans flung from ^Etna's forge to cool 

446 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

Amid the breakers and away, beyond, 

The coast of Italy. — Again I see 

The hazy hills where graze my brother's sheep, 

The olive trees that bow themselves and peer 

Down grassy gullies, and the timid joy 

Of almond trees in bloom. 

When morning comes 
The ewes unbidden crowd about my knees, 
And with blind hands grown gentler than of old 
I milk them one by one ; — then pasturewards 
I follow them Avho one time followed me. 



A BALLAD OF DEAD CAMP FIRES 



Food for the horses — lots of it — upon the bluff, 
Sure to be a spring in a pocket of the hill, 
There in the deadfall for a fire wood enough, 
Here's the place for bedding down — 
Whoa ! Stand still ! 

Throw off the saddles, untwist the hackamores, 
Loads off the burro and the pack cayuse : 
One shall wear a bell to keep the stock in ear-shot, 
Twist the hobbles round their legs and 
Turn them loose. 

Here on the spot where a fire crackled last year, 
Scrape the charry faggots off, kindle one anew; 

447 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Men and seasons out of mind each band that 

passed here, 
Lured by feed and water, stopped and 
Made camp too. 

Sage-brush to kindle with, 

Quaking-asp to glow, 
Pine-roots to last until the dawn-winds blow ; 
Oh smoke full of fancies, 

And dreams gone to smoke, 
At the camp-fires dead long ago ! 

ii. 

Here used to camp with squaws and dogs and 

ponies, 
Long before the coming of the pale-face breed, 
Blackfeet hunters, Bannocks and Shoshones, 
Laying in their meat against a 
Winter's need. 

Warm in their blankets, weaving savage fancies 
Out of the smoke that veered above the blaze, 
Fortunate hunts, the foray and its chances, 
New squaws and ponies and the 
Head Chief's praise. 

War parties lurk on the trails to the hunting 

grounds, 
Treachery enters where the tepees spread, 
New scalps dry in the Absaroka villages, 
The lodge-poles are broken and the 
Fire is dead. 

448 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

Sage-brush to kindle with, 

Quaking-asp to glow, 
Pine-roots to last until the dawn-winds blow ; 
Oh smoke full of fancies, 

And dreams gone to smoke, 
At the camp-fires dead long ago ! 

in. 

Here later on came the man whose race is sped 

and gone, 
Born white, burnt red under wind and sun ; 
Life in the one hand, rifle in the other one, 
Traps on every creek in which the 
Beaver run. 

Feet to the fire, watching where the eddies spin, 
Pine smoke eddies, while the damp logs sing, 
Conjuring visions of mighty packs of beaver skin, 
Good for gold in plenty at the post 
In the spring. 

Trail to the traps in the creek at the break of day, 

No trail back and the sunset is red ; 

Two eagles wheel above the brush at the beaver 

dam, 
A timber-wolf is howling, and the 
Fire is dead. 

Sage-brush to kindle with, 

Quaking-asp to glow, 
Pine-roots to last until the dawn-winds blow; 

449 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Oh smoke full of fancies, 

And dreams gone to smoke, 
At the camp-fires dead long ago ! 



IV. 



Gone bow and quiver, lance and feather bonnet, 
Smooth bore and beaver- trap, buckskin jacket, all — 
Here is the stage — but where the actors on it? 
Dead to our plaudits, and the 
Vain recall. 

Still one shall hear the coyote in the moonlight, 
Still hear the bull-elk whistle up the sun, 
Still the old orchestra carrying the tune right, — 
Oh wasted music ; for the 
Play is done. 

We, too, shall act our parts on other stages, 
Spinning out fancies while the Fates spin thread. 
Heap up the fire then, keep the present cheery, 
We must hit the trail, too, when the 
Fire is dead. 

Sage-brush to kindle with, 

Quaking-asp to glow, 
Pine-roots to last until the dawn-winds blow ; 
Oh smoke full of fancies, 

And dreams gone to smoke, 
At the camp-fires dead long ago ! 

450 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

THE TETON8 AT DUSK 

The sun has dropped behind the range, 

The twilight saddens hill and tree, 
A moment now the world is strange, 

A shifting fairy world to me. 
The same terrain spreads mile on mile 

From mountain base to mountain base — 
But Nature wears her vision-look 

Upon a changing face. 

From early years, of sterner ways, 

On shadowy steeds — from Deadman's Keep 
The spectres of heroic days 

Across a haunted twilight sweep. 
Soldier and scout, whose dust, perchance, 

Still drifts about the sage-brush plain, 
Keen hunter, eager emigrant, 

Start forth to life again. 

A moment — and the silent band, 

Down trails that thread the wastes of Dusk, 
Ride back once more into the land 

Beyond the old day's yellow husk ; 
And like grim warders of the Past 

The Tetons loom, with shoulders white — 
Their mighty backs forever set 

Against the gates of night. 



451 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

A SLEEPING PRIESTESS OF APHRODITE 

She dreams of Love, upon the temple stair — 
About her feet the lithe green lizards play 
In all the drowsy, warm, Sicilian air. 

The winds have loosed the fillet from her hair ; 
Sea-winds, salt-lipped, that laugh and seem to 
say: 
" She dreams of Love, upon the temple stair, 

" Then let us twine soft fingers, here and there, 

Amid the gleaming threads that drift and stray 
In all the drowsy, warm, Sicilian air, 

"And let us weave of them a subtle snare 
To cast about and bind her, as to-day 
She dreams of Love, upon the temple stair." 

Alas, the madcap winds, how much they dare! 

They wove the web, and in their wanton way, 
In all the drowsy, warm, Sicilian air, 

They bound her sleeping, in her own bright hair — 
And as she slept came Love — and passed away — 
She dreams of Love, upon the temple stair, 
In all the drowsv, warm, Sicilian air. 



TO AN OLD FRIEND 

A kindred taste in books — the better kind, 
A love for humor — of an honest vein — 
A turn for talk, for verses, and a strain 

452 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

Of Scottish blood— last, but not least to mind, 
A joy in vain debate; all these combined 

Have made us young together — spite the score 
Of years you rank me, and the little more 
Of gray above a brow no deeper lined. 

But to keep young together— how solve this? 

Who reads the riddle never need grow old : 
To leave the heart unlocked, that naught in vain 
So it be worthy— yes— though it be pain- 
Shall seek the door : old friend I cannot miss 

The simple answer, by your own life told ! 



THE ROSARY 

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, 

Are as a string of pearls to me ; 
I count them over, every one apart, 
My Rosary. 

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, 

To still a heart in absence wrung ; 
I tell each bead unto the end and there 
A Cross is hung. 

Oh memories that bless and burn ! 

Oh barren gain — and bitter loss ! 
I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn, 
To kiss the Cross, 
Sweetheart, 

To kiss the Cross. 

453 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

SERENADE IN SEVILLE 

All murmur, all motion is hushed on the Prado, 
Concita, 
No echoing tread in the dark street is heard, 
I stand here alone at my heart's El Dorado, 
Carita, 
Waiting for one little word. 

Aslant the Giralda the moon pours its riches, 
Concita, 
And through the dark church draws a pathway 
of light; 
The saints are asleep in their shrines and their 
niches, 

Carita, 
We only are wakeful to-night. 

All Seville is sleeping about me, above me, 
Concita, 
Alone in the dark I am waiting for hope or 
despair, 
So drop me a token to show that you love me, 
Carita, 
Or drop the stiletto that gleams in your hair. 



454 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

POEM DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OP THE 
PAN-AMERICAN EXPOSITION, MAY, 1901. 



Great Sister of a peerless sisterhood, 

Dear Sovereign of a sovereign people's realm, 

Thou whose strong hand first gripped the waiting 

helm 
Of the bright ship whose chart reads — ' ' Liberty ' ' — 
And turned her prow into the Western sea, 
We, in thy name, and as thy people should, 
With arms extended, and the door wide thrown, 
Welcome thy sisters of the mighty name, 
To all that thou hast willed should be our own. 
To thee — to them— thy sisters, not in blood, 
But of one heart, of purposes the same, 
Throughout whose veins exults the untamed flood 
That drives the pulse of all who would be free, 
This labour of our hands and brains and hearts, 
Man's palm in Nature's struck and hers in Art's, 
At the chief Commonwealth's fair farthest gate 
We dedicate. 

ii. 

Enchanted city where the dreaming soul 

Conjures the minarets of far Cathay — 

And half expects along some waterway 

To hear all Venice in a barcarole ; 

Mistress of moods, across whose changing face 

Half of old Spain and half of Greece we trace ; 

455 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

Hither the nations of the West have brought 
Fruit of their labour, flower of their thought; 
Best of their best beside our best finds place : 
The Saxon vigor vies with Latin grace ; 
And tithes are paid in product and in art. 
But in all this the past as well has part. 
The imperial cities of the world have shown 
Tributes as beautiful at worthy shrines ; 
Something is here that moves on different lines; 
A master-thought that we would claim our own ; 
A magic word — a dominant that cries 
Insistent through this fugue of industries. 

in. 

Some magic word in all achievement lies — 
What word is ours? 

If for a moment one 
Might quite undo all that man here has done, 
Should level to the earth these towers that rise 
Hued like an opal in the morning skies, 
And bid this radiant city's murmur cease; 
Should lull the distant town to silent peace, 
Still clanging engines and discordant cries, 
And hearken as this spot in long-gone years 
Hearkened with Nature's myriad woodland ears, 
Out of the awful gorge whose throat pours forth 
The song of all the waters of the North, 
The magic word, from that vast consonance, 
( lear as the Voice that in the primal night 
Spoke to the waking world, " Let there be light ! " 
Should greet his listening ear beyond perchance. 

456 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

IV. 

A Force — that from the daybreak of the years 

Has sent its voice above the roaring mist, 

Has flung this magic word to heedless ears, 

To savage, or to untaught colonist ; 

A Force — that knew its power yet cOuld not gain 

Man's hand, and lacking this its power was vain, 

Linked with the knowledge of this later age 

Flashes at last into its heritage. 

A Force — whose voice acclaims to us to-day, 

" Behold the Genius of the Century ; 

Whose beckoning hand as yet we only see 

Stretched from the unseen — pointing out the way. 

Yet not forever will she dwell apart, 

Follow her guidance with unflinching heart, 

With limbs in which no faltering finds place ! 

So at the last perchance ye see her face ! " 



Type of the sprites who wait before the throne 
Of the great kingdom, of the Great Unknown, 
To future ages winged messenger ; 
Old as God's lightning but to us whose ken 
Sees but the distance of the deeds of men, 
Youthful as yesterday, a child new born 
Just waking from its sleep, yet whose first stir 
Jars the old order from its groove outworn. 

457 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

VI. 

Yet there is more that we would dedicate, 
Something that makes these great things doubly 

great, 
Outside the scope of Science and of Art, 
And labour's handiwork ; within the heart, 
city beautiful, the heart of thee ! 
Child of the sunset and the inland sea, 
Thou art the rainbow promise that we span, 
A glowing message to the heart of man, 
Across the threshold of the years to be ! 
*********** 

We saw him go, who is but lately sped, 
The old great century whose Fathers came 
Out of the smoke, that with his birth turned flame; 
And still we almost seem to hear his tread, 
Slow, slow receding, firm unto the last, 
To see him dimly with his unbent head 
Leading his hundred years into the past, 
Among the great centurions of lesser fame. 

vn. 

We know too well, with all his great emprise, 
His nervous grasp on power, unclouded eyes, 
His will to profit by free thought and speech, 
When sullen nations grappled each with each 
That he was only impotently wise. 
The great wars thundered in his infant ears, 
The great wars shook him in his later years ; 

458 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

Beneath the curtain of the stricken field 

By Glory's riddled banners, half concealed — 

He saw the tragedy and called it crime. 

But heir to all that was, last child of Time, 

He found no cure for what his soul abhorred, 

And when he passed, his right hand held the sword. 

VIII. 

Now swing the doors upon a threshold new : — 

The nations press in eager tumult through, 

And with wide, careless eyes about them peer. 

The pageant of the present fills the gate, 

The clamor of the instant holds the ear 

Till the brass portals to the echoes ring; 

And man, contented with to-day's estate, 

Recks not the future, howsoever fraught. 

Almost it seems the steeds of action spring, 

Unreined by judgment, into mid-career, 

And drink no longer at cool springs of thought. 

But there come moments when resistless need 

To pause, to ponder what the new dawn brings, 

To what adventure the dim highways lead, 

Lies like a silence at the heart of things ; 

And who then listens with a will to heed 

Shall hear, from out the mist that like a ghost 

Hovers among the turnings of the way, 

The murmur of a great awaking host, 

The laugh of bugles in the breaking day, 

And nearer drawing, nearer, nearer yet, 

The trampling horse that bears the first Vidette. 

459 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 



IX. 



What do they bring to us, these marching years ? 
Come they as embassies, or with the sword ? 
What legend on the pennons of their spears. 
Defiance or long peace and sweet accord? 



Alas ! the years with empty hands draw nigh, 
They do not come to give, but to demand ; 
And to the question we must make reply : 
" What do ye bring to our expectant band ? " 
The right is theirs, and we are they who ought 
To meet them bearing gifts, with us it stands 
To set for good or ill, within their hands, 
The tools with which the present must be wrought. 

XI. 

sisterhood of all who bear the name, 

Ye do not seek alone a widened mart; 

A larger thought than trade is in the heart ; 

There is a nobler and a truer aim ! 

The "Know thyself" engraved above the door 

Of Delphi's oracle we alter here, 

To "Know each other" — better — more and more, 

Tenants in common of the hemisphere ! 

For Prejudice, so near akin to Hate, 

Has Ignorance to serve him. Will ye wait 

A fairer time? What time so fair as now? 

What time so ripe? Clasp hand in hand, and thou, 

herald year, bear witness to our vow ! 

460 



ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 

XII. 

" Among ourselves, whatever fate may be, 
We will not strive — except for Liberty ; 
Of varied speech, of varied lineage sprung. 
Deep in our hearts we speak a common tongue. 
When clouds drift low across the sombre skies, 
When questions nettle and debate shall rise, 
This mother-tongue of all who would be free 
Shall seal our scabbards and unseal our eyes." 

XIII. 

And thou, my Country, wdiom God's hand has 

made 
Greater of stature, heavier of blade 
Than these thy sisters, it must be for thee 
To give the password of the Century. 
For thee by thine ensample to illume 
The road that stretches towards the marching 

years, 
And so to lead that there shall be no room 
For home-bred cavil, or for alien sneers. 

XIV. 

"Oh, beautiful, my country," so he w T rote, 

Our Lowell, for whose peer we wait in vain, 

Art thou less beautiful because the stain 

Of tears is gone from off thy cheeks ? Shall we 

Less freely all we have to thee devote 

Than did our Fathers, who gave all for thee? 

461 



POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 

We hear the little prophets of no hope 
Whose eyes scarce reach the level of thy knee, 
Cast doubt upon thy splendid horoscope, 
Because thy robe's hem only can they see. 
We know thy garments sometimes touch the mire, 
We know deep waters sometimes cross thy way, 
We know thy limbs must often bend and tire, 
But we have faith and stronger hearts than they. 
For well we know, though flood and mire be deep, 
Thy steadfast feet upon the causeway keep ; 
And well we know that with unshaken will 
Undaunted in whatever quest may be, 
Above thy head, yet golden with thy youth, 
Thou bearest the sacred fire of the truth, 
The vestal of the great humanity 
And Virgin still ! 



462 



SEP 19 1904 



